


Bacon and Eggs (Nothing's Easier)

by amproof



Category: Captain America (Comics), Iron Man (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, But not how you think, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Helpful Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Married Life, Mystery, No Sex, POV First Person, POV Tony Stark, Parent Steve Rogers, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Good Bro, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Steve is Captain America, There is a character death, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Tony will be, Tony's OC brother is missing and he is sad about it, actor Tony Stark, at the end, but I still hope you are sad about it, but it's OC, therapist Steve Rogers, tony is an actor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-10 10:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amproof/pseuds/amproof
Summary: Ten years ago megastar Tony Stark quit acting to be a stay-at-home dad to adopted son Ian. With zero regrets, he's loving life alongside his husband Steve Rogers, aka Captain America to the millions of children who tune into his daily television show. However, the 15th anniversary of the day Tony's brother Mark went missing is coming up, and his agent Bucky Barnes reminds him that pretenders are going to come out of the woodwork again. Add to that, Ian suddenly wants to walk to school alone and call him 'Dad' instead of 'Daddy'.  Tony's happy bubble is about to burst...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first long Avengers fic! Thank you to sbb for the beta and cparagraphs for the support!
> 
> Old school Disclaimer: Totally fictional, characters not mine, property of Marvel. This is an AU.

“Mr. Stark, a word.” My son's headmistress was perched on the top stair like a vulture waiting for carrion when I walked up to his school. I pretended not to see her scowling and crouched to catch Ian, who was running towards me.

Reynolds and I, we had a history. The short version was she scared the hell out of me—the disapproving way she looked at me through her tiny, close-set eyes; how she knew what I was thinking before I did; her insistence on calling me 'Mr. Stark'; her refusal to let me call her 'Ann'. 

"Hey Buddy. Ready?"

"Yes." Ian settled his hand in mine and I, steadily not looking at the stairs, started back the way I had come.

"Mr. Stark." 

I cringed and turned around in mid-step. Reynolds peered at me over her bifocals. Fragments of a mangled Burt Bacharach song floated into my head. _Why do birds flee whenever she appears…_

“Again?” I said before I could stop myself. 

“Now, Mr. Stark.” 

"What did you do this time, Daddy?" 

"I don't know." I trudged back. 

Ian's teacher Miss Shannon was rescuing a kindergartener who had fallen headfirst into a ceramic planter at the base of the stairs. She lifted the boy out by his bottom, brushed him off, and deposited him, upright, on the ground. "Benji…," she said and perhaps judging the futility of continuing from the child's dazed stare, abandoned her sentence and instead smacked dirt off her skirt.

"Miss Shannon, would you mind staying with Ian while I talk with Dr. Reynolds?" I ruffled Ian's hair. "Just for a minute." 

"Quit." Ian reached up and stopped my hand.

"Sure," Miss Shannon said. 

Benji now fixed his stare on Ian. "I saw a sheet web weaver." He glanced from Ian to the planter, as if he expected my son to dive into it as well. Instead, Ian plopped down on the steps. Benji added, "That's a spider, in case you didn't know. I know a lot about spiders."

Ian ignored him. 

I surveyed the cars parked on the street and counted three SUVs. Too many tinted windows around. A few people walking too slowly for my tastes along the sidewalks. “You know, maybe you should wait inside.”

Ian got up, shouldered his backpack, and went into the building without a word to either of us.

“Come on, Benji.” Miss Shannon hoisted the boy along by his elbow.

"How will my mommy know to find me?"

"Don't worry, honey. She'll know." She removed a leaf from his cheek and led him inside.

“Ready, Mr. Stark?” Reynolds indicated with a knotted finger that I should come with her. I lurched forward, aware of my own gangly awkwardness, my whole body protesting its motion. She went into the building and I, a cowering schoolboy, followed her into the headmaster's office. 

My husband, Steve, grew up facing off against children from the lone private school in his neighborhood who could not fight for shit, but they had money and the taunts to match, so it didn't matter to them how hard he could punch. I grew up in privilege, among bitter people who always made sure I knew they weren't impressed with me. Our son fit in this place. He was loved from the moment he was born, and monied from the moment we signed the adoption papers, but I could never be anything but a stranger here, a trespasser in a place where I paid fifty thousand dollars annually for my child's right to walk through the door. Reynolds pointed toward a chair opposite her desk. The uncomfortable chair. The only one she ever invited me to sit in. 

"It's not paranoia," I said as I sat down. "I just feel better with him inside."

"Parents have the right to decide where they want their children to wait. Many prefer they remain indoors. We understand." 

"Right. Good." I was tense as hell, waiting for the stick to fall as to why I was there. I knew she wanted to talk about me, not Ian. I knew this partly from experience, and partly because Ian’s behavior never needed talking about. Three times this year and we were still in the first semester. She closed the door. It shut with a freedom-killing click. Then she went around to her desk and sat down.

"Mr. Stark, I want to discuss Ian's attendance with you. Specifically, your role in ensuring that he is here each day." 

I pulled Ian out of school on the occasional Thursday. He was ahead of all the other students in his class. I considered it a catch-up day for them. 

“Ian has a sensitive stomach.” It was our standard excuse. “I’m sure Miss Shannon would prefer I keep him home if he’s going to be throwing up everywhere.”

“I’m sure she would, if that were the case,” Reynolds said. “However, Mr. Stark, I think we both know that it often isn’t.”   
I was about to protest when Reynolds pushed a copy of Celebrity Spy magazine across the desk towards me. My denial died. She had folded it open to the 'Sightings' column. I leaned forward and looked without picking it up. There, beneath a picture of Hugh Jackman having lunch at an outdoor café, was a photo of Ian pointing to a polar bear while I stood next to him holding a container of Dippin' Dots. The picture was from the previous week, when Ian and I had decided that it was a fine day for the zoo, and not such a good day for school. The caption firmly identified us as “Tony Stark and adopted son Ian, 11"--He was ten; they had gotten his age wrong since he was five--"watch the polar bears play during an outing at Central Park Zoo.” 

"This could have been taken on the weekend." 

Reynolds handed me a magnifying glass and pointed to a green smudge behind us in the picture. "I considered that."

I looked. The smudge revealed itself to be a sign telling visitors what they could expect from the zoo on a weekday. I laid the magnifier down, carefully positioning it away from the sign. The last thing I needed was a confirmation of my guilt wobbling beneath concave glass. 

"Dr. Reynolds, you must understand how difficult it is for me to do things like this with Ian. The zoo is almost empty during the week. Surely you can't hold it against me if that's when I take him?" I tossed the devoted parent card at her. Fight that, Reynolds.

"I understand that you are in a unique position, Mr. Stark, and I am empathetic with your situation."

There. Ha.

"However."

Damn.

"Ian has been absent, on average, one and a half days every two weeks this year. Quality time with a parent is not what we consider a valid excuse."

"Well, we're just going to have to agree to disagree on that." It had always struck me as a particularly stupid phrase, a mollification rather than a solution, on par with "boys will be boys." 

Reynolds did not smile. Possibly she felt the same. "We teach our students responsibility. We ask that parents respect this and set an example by ensuring their children attend regularly, not simply when it is convenient for them."

It took all my power not to visibly squirm. "Steve and I have great respect for this school. Neither of us would ever want to do anything that might jeopardize Ian's future here." This was true, especially for my husband. Steve valued education above anything. He was also unaware of Ian's sporadic attendance or my role in it. And if there was any question as to which of us Reynolds preferred, this settled it: Steve was one of only seven parents on a first name basis with her. I had suggested that they have jackets made.

"Ian is a smart boy. We recognize that. That is why it is all the more important that he be in class."

I had used the same excuse to take him out of class. She stood, and I swung to my feet, biting a grimace as my body betrayed my eagerness for dismissal. "I understand." I stopped myself from offering an insincere apology or calling her 'ma'am'. Instead, my fingers drummed my thighs as if I had been ordered to stand at ease, but didn't quite know what that meant.   
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Stark. Please give Steve my best. You may keep the magazine." Her tone told me that she was not suggesting I keep the magazine. She was commanding it. A reminder for the next time I felt like prioritizing Daddy-son time over school. I took it. She waved me toward the door with the back of her hand while she looked at something on her desk. She had said her piece, and as far as she was concerned, I was no longer a priority. I was free. I yelled for Ian to catch up as I passed his classroom, and he shot out after me. 

"About time," he said. 

"No kidding." I grabbed his hand and flung the doors of the school open. Home was west, across Central Park. I had never been so eager to put distance between myself and Reynolds—apart from the other times she had busted me.

In the park, I slowed to a stroll with him. He ran ahead to hop from leaf to leaf as we passed through Shepherd’s Meadow. He circled back from time to time to catch one he had missed. No remnant of autumn would go uncrushed beneath his sneakers. He looked back at me now and then to check that I was still coming along behind. I waved at him to keep going and shoved the Celebrity Spy in my back pocket. 

“Tony? Tony Stark? Is that you?” I looked away from Ian to find the source of the shriek and saw a woman about to meet me on the path. She had her elbows at her sides and her palms extended towards me like a statue of the Virgin. Playing 'encounter with a fan' was not what I needed, not after Reynolds. 

"Nice day." I kept walking, hoping she would get the hint, but she trotted backwards in front of me. 

“It is you. I thought so.” She laid her left hand on her sternum. “Marsha. Marsha Wilson,” she said, as if we had met before and she was saving me the awkwardness of asking her name. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just taking my son home.” I looked over her shoulder to see if Ian had stopped. He had, and was facing us with his arms crossed. 

“Oh. I’m sorry for interrupting you. I just had to say hello and that I just loved you in 'Touching Dawn'.”

"Thank you."

"You and that other woman, the one who's in the tabloids all the time…"

She was lying or trying to pretend she didn't look at the papers, as if that would make a difference to me. Everyone knew Carol Danver's name. It was impossible not to. You could not go into a supermarket without seeing her picture. "Uh huh." 

“Anyway, I thought you guys were great together. Hey, maybe you should get married if she's ever free again!"

"I'll run it by my husband."

"Oh. Right. Yeah." She smiled and sort of flapped her arms.

“Have a good day, Marsha." I sped up to walk around her.

“Oh, I’d love to tell Ian hello.” Her arms reached velocity and she hopped backwards toward him. I got behind her and positioned myself between her and Ian. I smiled my best. Who did she think she was, using my son's name like she knew him after putting on that act about "whatshername, that other actress" and 'forgetting' about my husband? She thought she could do that, and I would take it as normal she knew my boy's name? Reading that I had a son named Ian in a magazine didn't give her the right to act like she'd been introduced. And people asked me why Ian treated everyone like a stranger—how was he supposed to know who he knew and who he didn't with people coming up to him like this, wanting a piece of him, as if it would get them in my good graces if they asked about his grades and tried to ruffle his hair. 

“I don't think so. I really do have to get him home.” Ian came up behind me and peeked around my waist. I reached back and squeezed his shoulders.

“Of course. It was, um, nice to talk to you, Tony.” She leaned around me to see Ian. I leaned with her, keeping my smile on. “And you, too, Ian.” He stared at her. "And, um, I thought you were great in 'Our Town', and I really hope you come back to Broadway soon."

"Thank you." 

"Thanks again." She waved and went on her way.

“I hate when that happens,” Ian said when she had disappeared down the path. 

He pulled his hand out of mine and rubbed it on his coat, and then gave it back to me.

“I know, Buddy. I don’t know what to do. We could move, but I don’t think Papa would like that.”

“I don’t want to move. I live here.”

“Yes, you do.” 

“There’s a guy over there, Daddy.” Ian pulled my hand in the direction he wanted me to look. Ian always saw them before I did; I’d lost track of all the photos I’d seen of myself, looking off, oblivious, while Ian stared straight into the lens. It took a moment to find it and then: the glint of something, glasses or camera caught by the sun, a glimpse of light hair in the distance disappeared into leaves. 

“He’s pretty far away. I wouldn't worry about him.” But I held his hand a little tighter and walked a little faster until he pulled away from me.   
He started counting, pulling his zipper up and down in time with whatever music he had playing in his head.

“What is that?”

“Mahler.”

“Oh. Right.”

Ian nodded as if he suspected I knew all along and was asking him for manners’ sake. 

In the lobby of our building, the doorman waved us over to the desk. “Mr. Barnes is here, Mr. Stark. I sent him up.”

Fuck. “Scott, did you let him into my apartment?”

“No, sir.”

“Is he waiting in the hall?” That wasn’t something Bucky would do.

“He had a key.”

“He did?” My afternoon was just getting better and better. I leaned over Scott’s desk and whispered, “Do you think if I went out for a few hours, he’d get tired of waiting and go?”

“With your high-def TV and satellite? Not a chance.”

“Scott, sometimes it frightens me how much you know.”

“You’re not the only one, sir.” He chuckled, a string of three jovial 'hehs'. “But don’t you worry. You know me; I’m a human lockbox.” He tapped his left temple. “Once something goes in, it don’t come out.”

“Thank you, Scott.”

“No problem, Mr. Stark. Ian, you be good now.”

Ian took the tip of his jacket string out of his mouth and waved at Scott with it.

#

Bucky was sprawled on the couch with his shoes on when I opened the door. I could just see the back of his head and his stupid ponytail propped against the armrest and a pale hand, partially covered by his tie, resting on his gymbunny stomach. Ian glanced at Bucky, stopping just long enough for me to yank the hat that Steve had knitted off his head before he darted for the playroom. "Hang your coat, Buddy," I said after him. "And shoes off, please." He shot a glare at me that said better than words how unnecessary my admonishment was—and how annoyed he was at having to stay in the room with Bucky a second longer as he kicked off his shoes. This last sentiment I fully understood. Ian raced up the stairs to the second floor balcony. The door to the playroom opened. I caught a glimpse of dark brown hair as he passed through and then shut himself away.

"What do you want?" I toed off my own shoes and nudged them into a row alongside Ian's. "I know you know that the shoe rule applies to you, too."  
He clicked the television off and sat up. I walked past him toward the kitchen. He followed me. "You missed our meeting, so I thought I’d come over.” 

I shoved through the kitchen door with enough force to give it the momentum to whack him good on the back-swing.

“We didn’t have a meeting.” To my disappointment, he caught the door as it swung toward him. I opened the refrigerator and stuck my head in. I heard a scraping on the linoleum as he pulled a chair out from the table, and then the exhaled grunt as he sat down. 

“Well, we've got a reason for meeting today, Tones--”

“Tony.” My brother Mark had called me Tones. Bucky called me Tones every chance he got, and whether he was being obstinate, knowing that I hated it, or if he thought I needed reminding that I had a brother once, I didn't know or care. As if I needed an excuse to conjure him up. I thought of him every day, heard his voice in strangers’ conversations, saw him walking away from me, changed into someone else when I caught up to him.  
It was hard to remember what my brother and I were like.  The thing about growing up is you remember all of it and none of it at the same time. It all spun into imagination.

"You have to get back into it. I’m getting offers every day.” 

I emerged from the refrigerator. “Why are you getting offers? You’re not my agent anymore, Bucky.”

“I didn’t hear that.” He waved at me with the back of his hand, as if my words were flies to swat away. He started listing the jobs. A lead in this, supporting in that.

I leaned over the table toward him so he would be clear who I was talking to. “I said you are not my—"

He pointed. His finger hovered an inch from my nose. “I’m focused on the immediate future, here. Your future. The tides are turning, my friend.   
These are your days. You have to go out and do something.” 

“I directed a play last year.” I pushed his finger away from my face.

“You have to be in something. People want to see your pretty face.”

“I got awards for my directing. Two of them.” Soymilk. Had to remember to put it on the grocery list.

He stared at me. “No one gives a shit about theater. Do you want people to forget you? You need to keep yourself in the public eye."

"I am not an actor anymore, Bucky. I shouldn't be in the 'public eye' at all. Why can't you understand that?" 

"We have to get your picture in the magazines.” 

“My picture was in one this week, since you mention it." I pulled the magazine out of my pocket. He snatched it, still rolled, and waved it at me.

“Great, they ran it." He opened it straight to the correct page. "Yes, see! That’s what counts. We need more of that. People eat that casual celebrity shit with a spoon. And when you throw a kid in…” He saluted me with a coffee mug left on the table from breakfast because I had sacrificed cleaning for getting Ian out the door on time. I grabbed it from him.

“You did this? What, you called someone? Told them to come stalking us? When are you going to get that my son is off-limits?"

“I was doing you a favor. You don’t see it now."

"He's your godson, not a marketing tool."

"Just because you stop working doesn't mean I do. I'm out there every day beating the pavement in your name." He smacked the table. I thought of something I wanted to smack. The cup clinked against the marble counter when I put it down, an unsatisfying replacement for my fist against his cheek. 

“I got my ass reamed by Reynolds because of that picture. She was looking at me like I ran a sex shop out of a church basement."   
Bucky grinned. "Well, that explains why you're in a pissy mood." 

"Don't worry, I'm giving you due credit for it, too." I stuck the cup in the dishwasher and walked out of the room. He followed me down the hall into my bedroom. 

"I've got something great for you--"

"Reynolds was upset about Ian, thanks for asking." I started stripping the sheets off my bed. Bucky leaned against the dresser and watched. "You might have used some sense and not had me followed on a day I was taking him out of school."

"Well, how could she have known that?"

"Because she can read, Bucky. She pulled out a goddamn magnifying glass and read the sign I was standing next to. It had the date on it." 

"That's something." 

"Isn't it, though?"

"What did you tell her?"

"I said that she had to understand how difficult it was for me to do things like this with Ian. She couldn't hold it against me if I took him to the zoo during the week when it was almost empty." 

“I certainly don't hold it against you. Your DVD sales increase three percent every time you’re out doting on Ian or whatever it is you do. You missed one." He pointed to a pillow on the floor. I shook the pillowcase off it and tossed it onto the bed.

"Do you have a point?" 

“With the special edition DVD box set of 'Metal Man I and II' coming out next month, and the airings starting on cable this week, people are going to ask about you. It’s time to get back in the game. You won’t have a better chance than this.” He took a breath and dropped the bomb. “They’re making ‘Metal Man III’. They want you.”

"It's a franchise, Bucky. The character is the star. Think how many Batmans there have been. It doesn't make a difference who's in the suit." I was just as good at saying ‘no’ as he was at getting people to say ‘yes.’ “Don’t you have other clients? People who want you to do this for them?” I shoved the clothes hamper into his arms.

He frowned. “What about a Dwayne Johnson picture? I’ve got something--”

“No.”

He followed me into the utility room and put the hamper down. I started the washing machine. He watched as I tossed the clothes in.

“One movie.” 

"You say it like you're talking about borrowing a cup of sugar. 'One movie. Simple little thing.'"

“Exactly. That’s all I ask. You owe me.” 

"Said like a man who has calculated every penny of income that my career change has lost him." I had a few inches on him and was fit enough. I figured I could take him if he tried to drag me out the door onto a film set. 

“When I think about all the money I could have made off you… I cry. I weep like a little baby. You do that to me. You and your incredible wasted talent.” He jabbed his finger at me.

“My family doesn’t think my talent is wasted.” I arranged the clothes in the washing machine to balance the load. I forced my hands to be gentle, to forget that he was there. I couldn’t blame him for having focus. It was what he did. 

The water looked wrong. 

“Tones—“

“Tony.” Not so bitter this time. Just as automatic.

“Making one little movie isn’t going to do you any harm.” He gave me a patronizing smile. He thought he had a hook in. 

“Nothing with The Rock is little, Bucky.” Soap. I forgot the soap. 

“Three months, tops. You can get a nanny.” He said it like it was nothing. Between him and Reynolds, I might as well give up on seeing Ian at all. I   
was sick of people telling me what was best for my boy, trying to take our time away.

I got down on my knees and stuck my head in the floor cabinet where we kept the detergent. I pushed the bleach aside to get to the all-purpose stuff.

“You know Ian doesn’t like strangers.” Bucky had seen Ian do his new people routine enough times to know that I could get an award for that understatement, but he just shrugged as if it had not occurred to him that having a child go catatonic because an unknown person sat in the living room might be a bad thing.

“He can stay home alone.” 

“Brilliant idea. That will win me Father of the Year for sure, especially when shooting runs twenty hours over schedule. Please tell me you don’t have any child clients. If you do, I want to speak to their parents.” I got up with the detergent. 

"Well, then, Steve can take some time off, come home and watch him. It's only fair." 

I set the box on the edge of the machine and started measuring out the soap. "I'm not going to ask Steve to take time off. People need him."

Bucky put his hands up to ward off my glare. “I'm sorry. But, you're frustrating, you know? I’m seeing dollar signs and you’re determined to paint over them, aren’t you?” 

“Bucky, you come over every week uninvited, help yourself to my champagne and my pay channels, you put your feet on my furniture, and I’m sure you’ve negotiated a nice cut for yourself off that DVD. I think you’re doing okay.” I poured the soap into the washer and closed the lid. 

“You were going to be bigger than God.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Stop sulking.” I tossed the cup back into the detergent box and put the box away.

“You can’t just quit acting. No one quits acting.” He slapped his thighs with his palms and looked as if he would start jumping up and down.

“Lots of people do.”

“Not anyone who makes money. Look at your apartment. You made bank.” He swept his palms outwards. I looked at the towel cabinet, which he seemed to be gesturing towards. It was simple and white. There was nothing special about it at all. I carried the hamper back to the bedroom with him behind.

“My husband is quite well off. He’s been on Ellen.”

“I could have gotten you on Ellen.” He trailed me into the living room, looking as mournful as he sounded.

“Is this how you got Steve to be your best friend? Constant badgering?”

“Pretty much. I’ve got some scripts I want you to look at.” He picked up his bag from the floor beside the couch. He pulled three scripts out. “I'm   
just going to leave these here in case you decide to make a comeback."

"I'm sure these will get along fine with the others." My 'Bucky Comeback Stack' was spilling over. 

"Have you looked at any of them?"

"The last thing I read was Ian's homework essay about the different types of clouds." 

“I’m sure you have a lot to think about, so I’m going now.” 

“Bucky, give me your key.”

“My what?”

I held out my hand. “Key. Now. I don’t know how you got it; I don’t care. Hand it over.”

He put a key in my hand.

I held it up, turned it, and gave it back to him. “Now give me the key that opens my door.”

He made a show of shaking out his pockets and putting all the contents on the coffee table. Finally, he found the key and slowly handed it to me. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, one more thing--we're five months from the fifteenth anniversary of Mark's disappearance."

"I know that. Do you think I don't know that?"

"I bring it up because I need to know how you want me to handle the interview requests that are coming. My stubbornness aside, I recognize that you   
think I'm not your agent, but in this case, I want you to make an exception."

"Fine. You know how I'm going to respond. 'No'; same as always."

"I'll make sure they're aware."

"And what are you going to do when they ask to talk you about it?"

"They won't ask me. I'm just the agent. No one knows Mark and I were best friends."

"You sure about that?"

"You should know there's a new book coming out. It's nonfiction, or claims to be; the writer's a British guy. I don't know him. I'm having my assistant track down a galley."

"All right."

"And there's a fair chance Law & Order will rerun the episode based on it."

"I didn't like how that ended."

"Neither did I."

"You know, I've never understood why you haven't tried to exploit Mark like you do everyone else in my life. Could get you quite a few covers."

"I wouldn't do that to him."

"Right." Sometimes I forgot how close Bucky and Mark had been. Hell, we'd all been close back then.  
I followed him to the door to make sure he didn’t swipe my key off the hook in the foyer. I double bolted after he left. Then I carried the scripts into the library where they joined their brethren on my desk. I went into the kitchen and finished loading the dishwasher. I wiped the counters down and the table. I added soymilk to the shopping list on the refrigerator with the pen tied next to the list with a white string. In the living room, I put the television and satellite controls back into their basket and straightened the pillows on the couch. Up the stairs to the playroom, which was more of a mess. Ian was watching a cartoon, robot men shooting each other with lasers. He turned around when I came in, looked past me, and faced the television again when he was certain that I was alone. He had exchanged his school uniform for striped shorts and a white t-shirt. His navy blazer was draped over the back of the child-sized desk chair that he was steadily outgrowing. 

Ian’s adoption book was lying open next to his bookshelf. It was a photo album that Steve had started for him, our version of a baby book.   
“You were reading your book, Buddy?”

“Huh?”

“You were reading your book?”

“I’m trying to watch television, Dad.”

“Sorry.”

I knelt beside it and looked at the smiling white girl and black boy, seventeen if they were a day. The boy wore a high school basketball jersey and towered over the girl. The children who had made my child. I closed the book and put it on the shelf. Ian rarely said anything in depth about being adopted. He never asked to see Lily and Jaeden, or where they were, or if he had other grandparents. But sometimes I found the book laying out, and I wondered if he wanted to know those things. 

We had told him of flying to meet a young girl who lived in a three-room house with her mother, two siblings, and five cousins. Bright girl. Beautiful, pink lips and downcast eyes.

Steve saying, “I want to adopt her, too,” when we left the house.

And Jaeden. We went to one of his basketball games. Steve didn’t know a thing about basketball, but he cheered the loudest. They say that you shouldn’t get close to the birth parents. It can cause trouble, later. But afterward, we all hugged like one big happy family. There was a picture of that, too.

Lily’s mother called at the end of March and said Lily was in labor. We dropped everything to catch a plane. Jaeden’s father picked us up at the airport. Breaking ninety getting to the hospital. Interns bundling us into robes and masks and then shoving us inside the delivery room. The room was bright and Lily was in the middle of blue people. 

“You made it,” she said. Her eyes were glassy. I went over and held her hand. Jaeden was on her other side.

“Hey man,” he said.

“Hi.”

Lily’s hair was sweat-slicked to her forehead. Jaeden and I reached to brush it away at the same time. Our hands bumped, and I pulled mine away. 

“How are you doing, Lily?” Steve asked.

“Drugs are very good.”

Watching Steve with Lily, I knew he was going to be a wonderful father. I held onto Steve and watched my son take his first, annoyed breath. A nurse wiped Ian off and put him into our arms.

“Is he alright?” Jaeden said.

“Ten fingers, ten toes.” Steve was crying. I was too. 

Jaeden asked to hold him.

Fear seized me. If I let him hold the baby, he would want to keep him. I shook my head, but Steve handed Ian over. He showed Jaeden how to support the baby’s head. 

“There you go. Just like that.”

“He’s so small.” 

I stuck my finger out and the baby wrapped his tiny fist around it. 

He shifted the baby back to me. “Here.”

I held my son against my pounding heart. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” 

Jaeden looked at us like he had forgotten why we were there. He didn’t understand what he and Lily had done for us. We went home three days later with our boy and two weeks after that I went to work on my fifth film. 

When we realized that Steve’s job was changing, as he was invited to speak at more conferences and his work kept him on the road three or four days a week, we talked about getting a nanny for Ian. We hired a few people, but they didn’t last more than three months each. Ian needed consistency. So, we had to think of something else. I had made five films since he was born and hated every second I was away from him. The thought of shooting another film repulsed me. Steve’s work helped people. My work came with action figures written into the contract. He shaped lives. I mostly ran around in front of a blue screen and pretended to battle CGI villains. Put it that way, and the decision was obvious.

I made the announcement on a talk show while I was promoting the last film. “This movie is great. By the way, I’m not coming back. I’m going to be a stay-at-home dad.” After the talk show, our phone lines exploded with calls. So did Bucky. I hadn’t told him. Or anyone except Steve. Maybe that was immature, but I didn’t want anyone to talk me out of it. In the seven years since, I could count on one hand the number of offers that had tempted me, but being with Ian reminded me what I was doing—why I was doing it. He needed me. Nothing else mattered. 

I sat down beside him. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t know he’d be here.” 

Ian leaned against me, part father, part pillow. I hooked my arm around him. I felt the tension from Reynolds and that woman in the park and Bucky dissipating.

“Papa's show is coming on, Daddy. You are going to watch it with me, right?”

"Sure thing."

We turned to the T.V. together as the friendly intro music faded and Steve appeared in his uniform, cowl down over his eyes, walking through the door of his "house." He stopped to feed his fish, then sat down on the couch and gazed into the camera. "Hello Friends! I'm Captain America, and I've been thinking about heroes lately. Who are your heroes? Do you think a hero is someone strong and brave? Or could it be someone nervous and weak? Anyone can be a hero. I'm going to tell you a story today about how I know that..."


	2. Chapter 2

My boy could be counted on to always wear a hat and galoshes when it rained because I put them on him. His nature kept him from talking to strangers, and if one tried to grab hold of him, he knew to scream and aim for the groin because I taught him. I thought I had shielded him against everything that could take him away from me, from cough to criminal intent. There was just one thing that I overlooked: the forward march of time. On our walk to school, Ian asked if he could walk home alone. 

"Absolutely not," I said.

Time. Stupid, predictable time. Making him test his independence. It wasn't just Bucky anymore, wasn't just Reynolds taking my child away from me. Second by second the big T wanted him too, and I could do nothing about it. Except tell him 'no', which, from my standpoint, did the job.

"Why?"

"Someone could grab you."

"I am sure someone else would take a picture of it and then they would stop."

"We haven't seen a photographer since that one last week. I wouldn't count on them to be around when you need them. It usually works the other way."

“I am almost eleven." My boy, ever the voice of reason. He didn't get that from me. 

“I think I heard something about that.” 

“Mishka walks to school alone, and she’s a girl.” He had turned perpendicular to me and was scissor stepping alongside. 

“What do you mean, ‘she’s a girl’? She’s your best friend. Since when are you referring to her as a girl?”

He shrugged. “Well, why don’t we try an experiment?”

Ian was big on experiments. “What kind of experiment?”

“I will walk home with Bobby today and if it works out, then you let me do it again tomorrow.”

I stared at him for the longest time, waiting for him to take it back. He didn't. He stared back with his huge, practical eyes. “This is a pretty big decision, Buddy. I think I should talk it over with Papa."

"Really?"

"Yes." _No._

"You promise?"

"Yes." _No._

“Want to shake on it?” He stuck his hand out, standing as posture perfect as the tin soldiers I had given him from my childhood collection, the ones Mark and I had played with. His arm extended straight out from his shoulder, elbow locked. I forced my hand from my side and shook.

“You are a good man, Daddy.”

“Thank you.”

He gave me a short nod. We started walking again, and he ran ahead a few paces to play his leaf-hopping game. I would never see him doing that again if he started walking home on his own. The first time he walked up the stairs without needing my hand I had the same thought. And the first time he rolled over by himself. The thought was not always true. But it was always there.

#

When I brought him home in the afternoon, we sat down in the kitchen, like usual, and went over his homework while I made us peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwiches on wheat bread. I was waiting for him to bring up walking home alone again, but he didn't.

"Are we doing anything special when Papa gets back?"

"We can." I cut the crusts off for him. 

"I kind of just want to stay home." He took the knife from me and sliced his sandwich into two triangles. 

"We can do that."

He nodded. "Good." 

I took the knife away and put it in the sink. As I came back to him, I noticed he was looking at _Celebrity Spy_. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it in the trash in the library.”

“Ian, there’s a reason I threw it away.”

“Is this why Dr. Reynolds was angry at you the other day?”

“She was concerned that you were missing too much school.”

“She wouldn’t have known except for this picture.” Jelly smeared off his fingers onto the magazine as he held it up.

“She'd have known you were out, but not what you were doing instead.”

“There’s a whole page of celebrities and their kids. I wonder how many of them are skipping school.”

“That's their business, Ian." The intercom went off. "Do you want to answer it?"

He stared at me, chewing with his mouth open.

"Just a little joke."

"Dad, you're a dork."

"Tell me something I don't know." I went to the living room to answer the intercom. "Yeah?"

“Mr. Stark, your brother Mark is here.” 

“Send him up.” It would be someone else. We used to get people claiming to be him all the time, just to get a look at me. Starting with the five year anniversary, we got a few each week, then each month, and lately a few each year. There were probably some that Scott weeded out who I did not know about. But for the ones who did meet the criteria—a passing resemblance to me, a certain age, ever increasing and now at 35, for those, I never could say no because what if I turned away the real Mark? What then? I went back to the kitchen to tell Ian to stay put.

"Daddy, is someone coming up?" Ian had poured a glass of milk for himself and left the carton out. I picked it up and put it into the refrigerator.

"Another Uncle Mark. Stay in here, okay?" 

"Okay." He was more interested in his sandwich than me. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it him this time?"

"I don't know." I bent down and kissed the top of his head. “Throw that magazine away, please. Before it rots your brain.”

The phone rang. I grabbed the portable off the wall as I walked into the living room. If he was too nervous to knock, he might phone instead. I hadn't changed my number. Just for him, I'd kept it the same, but unlisted. If this Mark knew it, then he was the real thing. 

"Tones?" My heart leapt. And then: "It's Bucky." The crash.

"I can't talk right now." I gave the windows a once over, as if Mark would care they were dirty. 

"You're booked on Conan for next week." 

"I said no interviews yesterday. I know you have the long term memory of a two year old, but--"

"You said that about Mark's anniversary. This is to do with your contractual obligations for ‘Metal Man’. Completely different."

"I have obligations from ten years ago?"

"I don't recall you signing a new contract that says you don't have to do interviews in conjunction with promotions, do you?"

"No."

"So, you're booked on Conan next week. They're thrilled. Your first interview in seven years, and they've got it. But don't be nervous."

"I'm not."

"You'll probably have to go out to L.A., too, do those shows."

"They'll have to work around Steve's schedule."

"That your way of saying you won't do it?"

"It's my way of saying I can't take Ian out of school. If they can be flexible, I'll do it."

“Going on Conan will be good for you." 

"Whatever you say."

"I read the galley of the book I told you about. I think you should read it."

"Uh huh." I was only half-listening and trying to sound as disinterested as possible, the one emotion Bucky was guaranteed to miss. Bad news for me, but if I hung up on him, he'd call back and keep calling until I answered. I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder and looked out the spy hole on my front door.

"I'm bringing it over tonight."

"I'm sick of people making a profit off of what happened." I stepped back from my door and started pacing. This Mark was taking forever. 

"He thinks Mark is still alive. This guy has some pretty interesting things to say."

"Someone not connected with anyone in the family? I'm sure he does." I flipped the phone from my shoulder to my hand.

"I'm trying to track the author down."

"Why?" Had I brushed my hair? Did I need to? I gave myself a finger-combing. 

"I want to ask him a few questions about his sources."

"Did he try to contact you before he started writing? Because he sure didn't try contacting me." With my fingernails, I checked my teeth for food bits.

"So?"

"So, if I were writing a book, a non-fiction book, I might put some effort into talking to the people directly involved."

"How do you know his wasn't one of the many, many interview requests you turned down last year?" 

"Well, that's just his luck, isn't it? If he were serious, he'd have kept trying. What are we going to do? Go through it for clues?"

"Why not? Be home tonight. I'm bringing it." The phone went dead. The bastard had hung up on me. He knew how to make an exit; I'd say that for him. I couldn't have him over tonight. If this was Mark coming up, I wanted him to myself. If it wasn't, then I didn't want to see Bucky. I called him back.

"Yello?"

"Bucky, come in the morning. Steve's coming back tonight."

"Who is this?"

"Ha."

The elevator chimed out in the hall. I listened for footsteps, but the carpet muffled them, as if it was not a man but a ghost about to pause at my door. 

"All right. Natasha and I will be there first thing."

The doorbell rang. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You got it."

I dangled the phone, a dead weight. Every step towards the door was a prayer. When I opened the door and saw the grinning face seeking mine, breath reeking of barley, I remembered why I had lost my faith. 

I had never seen this man before in my life. Just another liar. Just another disappointment. Just another day. I closed the door on him and sat down on the steps. I took an interest in grass stains on my knees that I hadn't seen before. Licking my thumb and rubbing them seemed a better thing to do than throwing myself against the wall and screaming. 

"Wasn't him, huh?" Ian brushed my hand aside and dropped onto my lap. I rested my chin on his shoulder.

"Nope."

"You know, Dad, I was thinking… Maybe when Papa comes we could go berry picking upstate or something. Like we used to do."

"You hated that, Buddy. What was it you said?"

"I don't know."

"If you were supposed to be out in nature you wouldn't have been born in the city?"

"I ripped my favorite jeans on the brambles."

"Papa said something similar. I believe that's why we stopped going."

"Yeah, but you like it, so…"

I kissed his hair. "Why don't we just play it by ear?"

"That sounds good. Get it, Dad? 'By ear'? 'Sounds' good?" 

"You've inherited your papa's sense of humor, I'm sorry to say."

He stood up. "I have to go practice now."

"Play something happy, okay?"

"Sure."

He jogged off. A few seconds later, the piano started and the apartment filled with a jaunty march. I didn't know if Mark was alive or dead. Everyone else had an opinion that they stuck to. For me, hope was a wall that I was done crashing into. I didn't allow myself feelings either way except for in those small moments when another imposter was coming up. Then it hit me with all the power of unleashed repression. When people came to me with 'evidence', I wanted to say 'show him to me'. That was the only way I would believe. In the first years, I fell on everything about him, I bruised myself over and over again, and none of it led to anything except me getting hurt, except my family dealing with me withdrawing from them in favor of a ghost. If Steve wasn't such a patient saint who finally told me to get my head out of my ass and face the priorities in front of me, our marriage in particular, I'd probably still be caught in that limbo and my little boy wouldn't be trying to cheer me up with those marches that he hated playing because they were too easy for him. If not for Steve setting me right, we wouldn't have Ian at all. 

The only thing I knew about Mark's disappearance was that it was completely and totally my fault, and that didn't have a thing to do with whether he was still alive or not. But it had everything to do with how I had lived since.


	3. Chapter 3

I fell asleep in Ian's bed, as I often did these nights when Steve was away. He slept on his back with his mouth open and his limbs thrown askew. One leg was under the blanket, one not. A hand almost smacked me in the mouth as the other clutched his gnawed and frazzled baby blanket. I knew that I should be more strict about him sleeping alone, but he had bad dreams sometimes and needed someone with him. Mark was the same. He used to tell me horrible things that he saw in his sleep.

No nightmares for Ian tonight. This slumber party was for me. The man who came to the door was laughing, and that kind was the hardest to take. It was not a joke to me that Mark was gone. I did not need him to be turned into a college prank so some young Wall Street punk could run down to his buddies at the bar and brag about what he'd done, about how I'd looked, if I'd yelled or sworn at him. I preferred the so-called crazies to the ones who came because seeing someone's basest disappointment gave them pleasure. Give me someone who believed he was Mark Stark. If I was in the mood, I would go along with it for a minute or so, ask him what he had been up to, if he had any kids, if he was happy. He would look at me and for a second I knew that he understood. It was as if he had lost someone, and had come to me hoping that I was that someone. Finding that I was not, he had been playing along, too.

When Ian elbowed me in the mouth around midnight, I rolled out of his bed, shifted his leg back under the blanket, and walked through the dark hall to my bedroom. So many empty nights like this when I was young, and my mother had called me into her room and held me and cried. Long after she was sleeping, I would lie awake and feel her tears drying in my hair. She relied on me too much when I was a boy, and so I was careful with Ian. I did not want him to think comforting his daddy was his job.

I undressed and laid down to wait for Steve. His plane was due into Newark at 12:30. I could nap for an hour at most. I wanted to be up when he came home.

 

#

I heard the piano first, a flippant tune that my mind shifted into a tableau of elves making merry as it prodded into my consciousness. I opened my eyes and Steve came into form, as if I had created him just by waking. The sun blazing through the window made a halo of his golden hair.

He was wearing one of my t-shirts. It was tight on him and rode up at the waist to show a sliver of firm stomach. He had never had a tan. His skin went directly to burning and peeling, skipping what he called the attractive step. I told him any step he took was attractive to me. When he saw me blinking into consciousness, he came over and gave me a small kiss.

"Good morning, Sleepy."

"Hey. What time is it? Do I have to run?" I pushed sleep out of my eyes with my thumbs and yawned.

"It's almost six. No rush yet."

"Ian can't be late to school. Reynolds is still on my case." I forced my feet off the bed and sat up. Steve started toward his suitcase. I grabbed him. "Did I say 'welcome home?'"

"You did not." He leaned down.

I kissed him properly. "Welcome home."

"Thank you." His hand lingered on my cheek before he went back to his unpacking. "You've been taking him every day since she yelled at you, right?"

I had called him the day Reynolds had me in her office, wanting a little sympathy from the love of my life. I should have known better. Steve thought my 'Reynoldsphobia' was hilarious. I didn't think this was a very mature view for "Captain America" to take, but between the two of us, I was the only one who felt that way.

"Yes, every day. And has she said a thing about it? No." I wasn't expecting a medal, but a smile, even half of one, if her lips still remembered how to twist in the upward direction, could guarantee that I would have Ian there before first bell for the rest of the semester.

"That's because you're supposed to take him to school. How often do you get congratulated for crossing the street with the walk signal?"

"I can see why you're her favorite. Why do I never get to use this to my advantage with her?"

"Maybe you're going about it wrong," Steve suggested.

"I'm done talking about Reynolds now." I pulled the pillow over my face and flopped onto my back.

Steve emitted an amused snort.

I raised the edge of the pillow enough to peek out. "Have I told you how sexy you are when you wear my clothes?"

"I think the sun's in your eyes. This shirt is at least two sizes too small.” He tugged the bottom of the shirt. “Or three. Were you this skinny when we got married?"

"Skinnier. And it still looks better on you than it does on me."

He unfurled a pair of dress slacks from the suitcase and a delicious smile, snapped a wooden clasp hanger over the slacks and hung them in his closet. The smile he kept.

"You also look great when you aren't wearing my clothes." I rolled over and belly-crawled to the end of the bed. "Or any clothes. If that first hint wasn't blatant enough."

"It was."

"But if you want to keep prancing around, I'm not going to object." I indicated with a wave of my finger that he should continue.

"Am I prancing? I thought I was unpacking."

"You see what you wanna see…"

He threw a pair of socks at me. I stuck my hand out to catch them after they hit me in the head. I felt heavy. I had warring urges to topple over and sleep and to touch him wherever I could, stretch that shirt even more reaching under it, and ravage him in the minutes we had before Ian came to ask what was taking me so long.

"What time did you get in? I didn't hear you." I stumbled over to him on sleeping legs.

"Around three-thirty."

"Why didn't you wake me?" His neck smelled like airplane. I nibbled anyway.

"More fun molesting you in your sleep." He tilted his head so I could reach the curve of his collarbone. He held still just long enough to get my hopes up.

"You didn't."

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Actually…" I grabbed him from behind and pulled him against me.

"Maybe if you're really nice, I'll show you."

"I'm always nice. How was your flight?" I nuzzled his hair. He had switched to a rancid-smelling shampoo. Probably cost a fortune. I would toss the bottle when he wasn't looking.

"Delayed three hours. And a kid on the plane threw up on me."

That explained the scent… and restored my faith in his ability to choose hair care products.

"I say, 'how are you doing?' And he says, 'blehhh'. I need to get my jacket dry-cleaned." His eyes crinkled when he laughed. I fell in love again every time.

"I'll drop it off for you."

"It's all right. I'll do it." He started pulling books from his suitcase. He brushed me off to shelve them on the half-wall bookcase in our room.

“You had time to shop?”

“Half day. There was an outlet mall nearby.”

“But when will you have time to read?”

“I’ve been meaning to make time.” He picked up one of the books, a hardback with a green dustcover. His fingers ghosted over the edges. Fingernails scraped the pages, dipped into the space between. He cracked it open and put it to his cheek. He inhaled. "Is there anything as sexy as the new book smell?"

"What about me?" I put my hand up. "Your husband who made the 'Hot Hottie' list three years in a row from a certain magazine you pretend not to read?"

"I know you think you're funny…"

"I am funny. ‘Metal Man’ was hilarious."

"But I really don't think it was supposed to be."

I put on a falsetto: "'Gavin, nooo, not _that_ button! The universe will be destroyed!'" I answered myself in a deep, heroic voice: "'I'm not Gavin. I'm…dun dun dunnnn…the Metal Man!" I pulled an invisible mask off my head.

He smacked my shoulder with the back of his hand. "Shush. You'll disturb Ian's practicing."

"Oh, he's fine." Ian was pounding his way through the stormy part of Vivaldi's ‘Seasons’. We could have shouted and he would not have heard.

"He told me he asked you if he could start walking home alone."

Damn. Cozy time over, and before the ravaging started, too.

"I thought I should discuss it with you first."

"No, you didn't." Steve didn't have to look at me to see through me.

"All right, I thought I should ignore it and hope he forgot about it. Satisfied?"

"Forgot about what? Growing up?" He thought he was in on the joke, but I wasn't joking.

"Yes."

"Tony…"

"I know how it sounds."

"Is this about Mark?" He had pity in his tone. I wasn't sure that I agreed with it, or wanted it.

"Not everything I do is about Mark." Why was it always, with everyone, about Mark? Steve should know it wasn't always. Sometimes it was other things. Any number of other things.

"Was this?"

"I think you're forgetting that Mark was the one who needed a psychiatrist, not me."

"No, you're just the one who married a psychiatrist."

"A psychiatrist who is dedicating his ample skill and experience into giving his all to America's children every day at three p.m, and I love every second of it, darling. Was Ian waiting up for you?" It was too early for these discussions. My head wasn't clear. I couldn't think past shower, sex, and food.

"He came in around five thirty to say 'hi'. I made us breakfast, and we had a good chat."

"You did what?" Because of Steve's attempts in the kitchen, Ian had learned how to get the fire extinguisher out of the cabinet before he could talk.

"I put waffles in the toaster and Ian stared at them so they wouldn't burn."

"That's more like it."

"Does he have a friend he could walk with?" Back on this walking-thing. Steve was so tunnel-visioned sometimes. Must drive his clients crazy, the ones that weren't already. Pounding and pounding and pounding an issue they'd rather ignore.

"He said yesterday that Bobby walks home on his own. And Mishka. She's a girl."

"What?"

"Something he said. 'Mishka, she's a girl.' He said it so I wouldn't think it was such a big deal. I don't know when he started thinking of Mishka as a girl, as different from him, I mean, but anyway—she lives in the other direction. Bobby walks across the park, too. He's gone with us a couple of times. I didn't think they were close friends, to be honest. It's hard to tell with Ian, though, isn't it?"

"Whether they're close or not, I think the best thing is to call Bobby's mom and make arrangements for them to walk together."

I enjoyed receiving a number of directives from my husband, especially when he wasn't wearing pants. This command was not going on the 'good' list. "Probably, if it comes to that."

"What do you mean?"

"We're not seriously considering…"

"Well, I think Ian is, so we should. You remember when he was five, he tried to take himself to the movies?”

"Yes."

"Which is why we should call Bobby's mom before you get to school one day to pick him up and find out he's already left."

"At least I'd pass him on the way." I was seconds from crossing my arms and sticking my lower lip out.

"Are you going to take that chance?"

He was so calm. So logical about our boy. He was right. I knew it. I just didn't want to. "I guess not."

"I'll get the number for you. I think you should call her."

"Because I walk him to and from school and I'm the one who'll be home worried sick until he walks through the door?" I felt like shouting, but we didn't do that. We were good, quiet people. We did not fight out loud.

"No, because you're the one most against letting him grow up. I'll be worried, too."

"I didn't mean--I wasn’t shutting you out.” I had not meant to hurt him. It was too early. I was doing everything wrong. "I'm sorry."

“I know you didn't mean it like that.” So why did he look wounded?

“It's important to me that you're involved. You do know that, right?”

“Tony, I understand. It’s okay. I know it's difficult for you being on your own so much."

"It's not so bad. I can have men over whenever I want, and Ian can have candy and soda at bedtime…" I was teasing him when I wanted to tell him to stay. Turn down the speaking engagements, the book tours, the show, and stay home with his family.

"I hate being away from you two, but this is the decision we made. Together. It was the right one." So sure of himself.

"At the time."

"Yes, at the time. And it's still the right one. For now." Exasperation crept into his tone. If I kept pushing, he would drop that soothing "Captain America" act and snap at me like a husband fighting with his spouse.

"When will that change? When he's in college? When you've cured the world? Those other people need you, but so do we."

"Tony. You're not even out of bed yet. Could we please not fight?" He grabbed his toiletry bag and walked off with it. I waited for him to return. And fumed. And waited. And stopped fuming. And started feeling bad. And sorry. I hadn't wanted to fight, either. But once I started digging a hole, I didn't stop until I could bury myself. I went after him. He was in the bathroom lining up tiny bottles of shampoo and soap. He had been in there long enough to arrange them several times. He switched the order three more times as I watched.

"Kind of got out of control. I'm sorry. You're doing a good thing. I just… I'm selfish sometimes."

"No, you aren't." He sat down on the toilet and looked at me.

"Well."

"We've found ways to cope so we can do what needs to be done."

"I know. Good for us, huh?" I forced a smile.

"I'll get you that number. It'll be all right."

"Promise?" Like the rest of America, I would trust anything he said.

"Yes." He put his arms on my shoulders. His eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

"He's only ten."

"Think of all the things you were doing when you were ten." He pulled me back to the bedroom. His hand was soft and dry.

"That's different. I grew up in the eighties."

"He said you had another pretender last night."

"A drunk on a dare." I tried to shrug it off.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. It's just been awhile since we got one. I'm fine."

"You're sure?" Steve looked ready to flip on comforting mode if I needed him.

"Will there be sex if I'm not?"

"There will probably be sex either way." That got his smile back.

"Then I'm fine." Mine, too.

"Okay."

"There'll be more now. Imposters, I mean. There's a book coming out. Bucky and Natasha are coming over with it. Probably any minute. He wants us to look for clues or something. There'll be publicity about it. So, people will remember, and they'll start coming again."

"You sound like you want to stay behind locked doors until it's blown over." This time the compassion felt natural. He wasn't lumping me in with his world of clients. This sympathy was all mine. I embraced it.

"I think I do."

"I have a better idea."

"What?"

"Let's go away. We'll take Ian to my dad's. You and I can have a little romantic getaway."

"Really?"

"I might have to lecture one or two days."

"Of course."

"Babe. It's reality, you know that."

Did I ever. But this time it could work out for us. "Actually—Bucky wants to book me on the L.A. talk shows. I've got some obligations for ‘Metal Man’. Any chance you're lecturing out there? We could cram all the work into a day or so and then head for someplace quiet. Just us, for _our_ fifteenth."

"That sounds amazing. When should we do it?"

"Before the shit hits the fan."

"What shit?" Bucky's voice wafted down the hall.

Steve yanked a pair of cotton slacks on, and tossed me a shirt from my drawer. "Did you hear the intercom?"

"No."

Bucky and Natasha appeared in the doorway. "Ding dong, kids," Bucky said. "Nice shirt, Tones."

I looked at my chest. Steve had thrown me a promotional t-shirt from the only non-romantic comedy I'd done, and my own face in black silhouette on a yellow background grinned at me. "Tony. And thanks."

"So, what are you talking about? I can sense when I'm needed. Welcome back, Steve."

"Thanks, Buck," Steve said. They grinned at each other.

"I am about to make your day," I said. "Steve and I have talked about it, and I want you to book me in L.A. before the press cycle about Mark's anniversary starts. We're going to take a vacation from there. Someplace quiet."

"Why? You hiding from something?"

"We just haven't had a vacation for awhile. It's our fifteenth anniversary, too, don't forget." Steve sounded like caramel over ice cream.

As if anyone of us could—both anniversaries fell on the same day.

"Wouldn't dream of it. I'm just delighted you're going to do it. Saves me from having a talk with the studio lawyers," Bucky said.

"Well, I do consider it my life's work to make things easy for you," I said. Steve choked on a laugh.

"If only that were true," Bucky said.

"Bucky, just curious—how did you get in here? I took your key away last week." 

He shrugged. "I don’t believe in letting anything stand in the way of business."

"Quite a catch you've got, Nat."

She stroked Bucky's arm in a way that seemed both possessive and sexual. "Isn't he, just?"

"What brings you two here all bright and early?" Steve said. "Tony said something about a book?"

"About Mark," Natasha said. "In honor of his fifteenth year of screwing off out of our lives."

"Not that she's bitter or anything," Bucky said.

"Not at all."

"We'll meet you in the living room," I said. "Why don't you two go on in and make yourselves at home?" I got up and found some pants.

"Don't get dressed for my sake," Natasha said.

"I'm not. I have to take Ian to school in a few minutes."

"After you, Muffin." Bucky and Natasha left. Steve and I finished dressing and went out a moment later.

Bucky pulled a manuscript out of his bag. "May I present 'Hope Comes as a Glimmer: The Mysterious Disappearance of Mark Stark' by Desmond Linney? Let's get down to business. How are we handling this?"

"Handling what?" Steve picked up the book and fanned the pages.

"I think there is information in this book that is worth following up on," Bucky said.

I glanced at at the pages as Steve skimmed. "Such as?"

"He talks to people who say they've seen Mark."

"Big deal—I talk to people who claim to be Mark," I said. "What kind of title is that? Isn't that a lyric to something?"

"I don't know," Bucky said. "If you're not going to be serious about this…"

"If anyone is going to tell me to be serious, Bucky, it's not going to be you."

"Boys. So, what do you suggest? A phone tree?" Steve said.

"I don't—" Bucky looked uncertain.

"If this is something to take seriously, we should tell the police. Who was the detective on the case? Rebus?" I said.

Glancing up, Steve said, "Remus, dear. Rebus is a fictional detective from those novels you like."

"Oh. Yeah." I couldn't help but think that if the hard-drinking, chronically depressed Scot were on the case, he'd have found Mark before a week was up and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Or he'd be having sleepless nights and imagining sightings, and I had those bits covered.

"And Detective Remus retired five years ago."

"Look, can it be so difficult, just for us, to go through this book and maybe track down a few people?" Bucky asked.

"Why don't you start with tracking down the author? Find out what he's all about?" Steve suggested. "For all we know, he made all these 'sources' up."

Bucky tapped the book. "He believes Mark's alive."

"So do I, but I don't have any proof, do I?" Steve said.

"Believing ought to be enough for any of us." There was a quiet resilience in Bucky's voice.

"No, Bucky. It isn't. The only way we're going to know he's alive for sure is if he walks through the door. And although many have tried in the last fifteen years, none have qualified," I said.

"I know he's alive."

"How do you know that, Bucky?" The quieter he got, the louder I wanted to be.

"I'm going to be late for school." Ian stood in the doorway and stared at us.

"Because I believe," Bucky said.

"Here we go."

"Nat, doll…" Bucky turned her, probably looking for support for his quixotic idea.

"I'll take you in a minute, Buddy." First I had to listen to another of Bucky's inspirational speeches. But instead of launching into the Reasons for Believing, Bucky offered Ian the chance to greet him. I often thought of Bucky's attempts to get Ian to say hello as his side project.

"Aren't you going to say hello to your Uncle Bucky?"

"He'll say hi to his Aunt Natasha, won't you, pumpkin?" Nat prompted.

He ignored them both. "Why are they here so early?"

"Perhaps instead of focusing on this book, we should be thinking about how we're going to spend this year's anniversary," Steve said.

"It could tell us if we need to have an anniversary at all." Bucky gave up on waving at Ian. He was readying his speech. Soon we would all be convinced; he was sure of it, even if we weren't.

I'd had enough. "It could tell us nothing. Is this book going to transport him back here? Go ahead and do all the research you want. It won't mean a thing. Nothing we do ever does. Just do it without me. Steve and I are getting the hell out of Dodge." Bucky looked as if I had smacked him. He never understood why I didn't fall in line. I'd heard it all before, hadn't I?

"Dad, you said 'hell'—" Ian interjected.

"I'm sorry, Buddy. I meant 'heck'. You're putting too much stock into this, Bucky. It's just another book. How many are there now? Ten? None of them have helped us. You're just asking for torture. You're asking for it. Take my advice. Burn the damn thing. It's not good for you."

"I'm not expecting it to make him appear. That's your criteria for a 'good' book, not mine." Bucky had plastered on his negotiating smile. It had made his career. It wouldn't make him anything here.

"Are you sure about that?" My fingers curled. I was ready to hit him.

"Uncle Bucky said 'shit' before, and that's worse than 'hell'."

"Ian."

"I think we should light candles and weep. For the anniversary." Natasha had gotten hold of Ian. She was combing his hair with her fingers. It needed to be done. Ian had a habit of forgetting. His glare—bored, vengeful—directed at me. I glanced at Steve to see if he was trying not to laugh, too. If you can't laugh at your kid, why have one?

"Natasha, you aren't helping. And stop petting my son."

She let him go. Ian stalked out of her reach. He shook his head until every curl stood on end.

"Just read the damn book, Tony. Try to act like you're not the only one involved in this fucking façade."

Ian started to call Bucky on the swearing. I stopped him. He tapped his wrist. Late. I knew.

"How many times do I have to say it? It's just a book. Nothing means anything except Mark standing in my doorway. That is the only thing I'm going to believe in. Not this book, not another one, just Mark. In person. In front of me."

Bucky put himself in front of me. If he thought he was any kind of substitution….

"You owe me. I know I say it a lot, but this time--"

I stepped to him. "You mean it? What? You going to say you mean it?"

"I mean it."

"I owe you. Yeah. And that's why you're Steve's best friend, right? Because I owe you." This was Bucky's most despicable ploy. How to guarantee your biggest check can't drop you completely? Be his husband's best friend. If I had considered hiring a different agent while I was working, he knew that staying close to Steve would put an end to those thoughts. What perfect insurance. I smacked his shoulders. One. Two. Three. He sniffed. I shoved him. Bucky had been so close to Mark. Before Steve, Bucky and Mark were best friends. They were the same age; they'd met at an alternative high school after they both got suspended from their private schools, two tough wannabes claiming to be worse off than they were and going home to homecooked meals and private tutors. Mark spent more time with Bucky than he did with me.

Maybe that was why I resented him--all those missed moments when I might have picked up on a clue that something was wrong.

Bucky punched me. I shook off the blow and barrel-rolled him onto the floor. He got hold of my hair and started slapping. I tried to knee him in the groin, but missed and gave myself rug burn instead. He got his legs between mine and flipped me. I twisted around and head-butted his stomach. We hadn't fought like this since we were teens. It felt liberating.

"Get off my dad!" We both grunted as Ian leaped onto Bucky and started tugging his ears.

"You two are an embarrassment to the species," Natasha said.

Bucky stopped pulling my hair long enough to ask what she meant. I made a grab for his ponytail.

"Get up. Both of you," Steve said. "Come on, Ian. Let go of Uncle Bucky." He pulled him off Bucky's back.

Bucky and I untangled ourselves. I got up and brushed myself off. He sat on the end of the couch and glared at me. "You fight like a drunken chipmunk."

I lied my way onto the high road. "I was trying not to hurt you."

"You've wanted to punch me for years." He had me there.

"Bucky--." I gave up. "Never mind. Ian, come on."

Natasha followed me to the foyer. "Tony, you shouldn't have said that. You insulted him and you insulted me."

"I'm sorry, Nat. But I am sick of him telling me I owe him for anything. We both know he blames me for Mark leaving."

"You blame yourself for Mark leaving."

"He couldn't marry Mark so…" The impact of her hand cracking across my cheek made my eyes water. I blinked the moisture back before any tears could fall as she glared at me.

"That was a rotten thing to say. Maybe we don't have the fairytale romance you and Steve have, but we love each other."

"I'm sorry." I touched my cheek, opened and closed my jaw a few times to see if it still worked properly.

"Go apologize to him right now." She left no question that she would knock me cold if I didn't.

"Dad, we're late." The clock told me that Reynolds would be next in line. How did this morning go so wrong?

"I'll take you, Ian." Steve had followed us out. He started putting his shoes on.

"No, I'll take him. I need the air."

Natasha touched my arm. "Tony. Just say you're sorry. Do it for me."

"Fine." When could I ever say no to her? I went back to the bedroom. Bucky was still sitting on the floor. He looked up when I came in, expectancy on his face, as if he was watching a play with a tense first half and I was an actor back from intermission. "Bucky, I'm sorry if what I said before was hurtful. I didn't mean to imply anything."

"No problem, man." He shrugged the apology off, as if it happened to him every day and wasn't worth mentioning.

"Dad." Ian tugged my elbow. And what was all this 'dad', not 'daddy' stuff all of a sudden? With everyone glaring at me, it seemed like a bad time to ask.

"Yeah. Look—leave the book if you want to. I'm not saying I'll read it, but… if it makes you feel better." Natasha should be satisfied with that apology. I almost believed it. If I looked at Bucky any longer, his fraught, open face turned up to me—"I'm sorry, Bucky."

"Sure. Yeah."

I didn't know if he was agreeing to my offer about the book or my apology.

Ian shoved my jacket into my hand. He surveyed the wreckage—Bucky on the couch, Natasha checking his face for injuries, Steve watching them. "I don't like Uncle Mark. He makes everyone miserable."

"Out of the mouths of babes…" Bucky said. He groaned as Natasha helped him up. She glared at me. 'He started it,' I wanted to say. Instead, I took Ian's hand and got out of there.

 

#

At the school, Reynolds was in her usual spot, glaring. "You're late, Mr. Stark."

"I'm sorry."

"Bye, Dad." Ian gave me a quick hug and ran into the building.

"Mr. Stark, if you'll follow me."

I looked at Reynolds, looked back toward the park. "Sorry. Not today." I turned around and walked away.

"Mr. Stark, do not walk away from me."

I kept going.

I wasn't about to go home. I felt somewhat bad for leaving Steve to deal with Bucky and Natasha, but he was better at it than I was. He was better at people. And if Bucky felt so strongly about Steve exercising some of his counseling skills on those of us at home, he might as well get a taste of it firsthand. Ian was right—Mark did make everyone miserable. What he didn't know was that it wasn't just his absence that did it. Mark in person was pretty good at it, too. But even so, I never intended that my boy should pick up on that, that the 'problem' of Mark would paint his life as much as it did mine. And that was something else I would take the blame for, if anyone was doling it out.

I wandered away from my usual path in the park and arrived at the Ramble. This was a tangle of trees and paths frequented by bird watchers and unfortunates who wandered in and spent hours trying to get out of it during the day and gay men cruising for sex at night. Faced with entering this physical map of my thoughts, I instead dropped down on a bench at the Ramble's edge. I knew I should call Steve and tell him what I was doing. What was I going to say? 'Sorry, honey, thought I'd leave you to take care of the mess I made. It's my revenge for Bucky saying we're raising Ian wrong.' I pulled out my phone. I would think of something. Before I had a chance, a man knocked the phone out of my hand.

Wasn't this perfect? No shower. No sex. No breakfast. A fight with my husband, a reminder that Reynolds still hated me, and now I was getting mugged. If I played my cards right, maybe I could get hit by a car, too. Of all the days to stay in bed…

"Look, pal, I'm really not in the mood…"

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. He hurled himself on top of me and laid me out flat. Great. A pervert was mugging me. One arm held a denim jacket over us, the other pressed against my side to take hold of the bench we were lying on. I could just make out a face hovering above me, the silhouette of eyelashes.

He pushed his arm against my mouth, hard enough to open my lips. My tongue caught the taste of sweat. He peeked through the sliver of light between the jacket and the bench.

I pushed him off, and the jacket fell. His flared pupils gave away his panic.

"I won't call the cops if you get out of here now."

"You don't understand." He grabbed me, kissed me. And it all came clear. This was a prank. He had been with some friends, they had seen me sitting here, and one of them had dared him to come kiss the Metal Man. It was not the first time this had happened. I shoved him, and he fell back, finally, and touched his lip with the back of his hand. He leaped to his feet and blinked at the sun like an animal emerging from a hole.

"You can tell your friends you won the bet," I said.

He took a half step backward and pointed at me. "You're Tony Stark."

"Obviously." I fixed my jacket and ignored him long enough to let it sink in for him. I hated not being recognized when I wanted to be just as much as I hated being recognized when I didn't want to be, and I was fully aware of the irony in that.

"You're Tony Stark."

"You didn't know?" He was honestly stunned. I forgot that I was annoyed.

"I didn't stop to look. You thought I knew?"

"I figured that was why you—"

"You have people throwing themselves at you a lot?" He was smiling, but biting it back a little. He was measuring me up, deciding if I was open for teasing. I could like him.

"More than you know. But not with quite so much vigor."

"Sorry about that. But, man, you don't know what you just did for me." He bounced from foot to foot, the smile unfettered now.

"I can imagine."

"No, you really can't." He kept fidgeting and looking over my head for something. He was attractive in the damaged way, a reddish-brunet, either early thirties or a battered late twenties.

"What are you looking for?"

"Me? Nothing. I'm trying to avoid the guy who's looking for me."

I picked my phone off the ground and dusted it off. "You really do have someone after you?" I turned around, too. I didn't see anyone who looked threatening. "And you were in the Ramble trying to lose him."

"Thought I was in there long enough, but I saw him right as I came out. So, I threw myself at you and hoped he wouldn't pay attention to two men together."

"Why would you think that?"

"I'm…kind of notoriously straight."

"You don't say."

"So, if he saw two men, he wouldn't think that one was me."

"Are you sure about that? I mean, this man, he knows about your notoriety? For being straight?"

"Well, I didn't think about—why wouldn't he?"

"If you make a practice of flinging yourself at men, it would be fair to assume that your reputation might shift a bit, wouldn't it?"

"I don't make a practice…" He had his hands shoved so deeply into his pockets that he was slightly hunched over. His gaze flitted from somewhere around my knees to the empty spot beside me. "You mind if I sit down? I'm a little out of breath." I moved over. "Thank you. Sorry about your phone."

"Gives me a good story, doesn't it?"

"Peter Parker." He pulled a hand out of his pocket and offered it. We shook. He started to tie his shoe, balancing it on his knee. His fingers moved with a skittish grace. "You're outside your range, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

He switched to the other shoe. His sneakers were white. The cuffs of his jeans, frayed. "I see you a lot with your son." He didn't make eye contact; his shoes and hands held his focus, and he seemed unconcerned whether I was listening or not.

"Oh."

"You could have been great, you know."

"Great?"

"If you hadn't retired."

"That's what my agent tells me. I'm the 'paycheck that got away.'"

"Bucky."

"You know Bucky?"

"Everyone knows Bucky." Seeing my puzzled expression, he added, "I've done some industry work."

"Ah."

"What?"

"Who hasn't, these days?"

"I saw your early work in theater. I was pretty young, but I remember you were amazing. They used to say you had the potential to be an American Olivier."

"That was nice of them."

"It was true. So why weren't you?"

"I retired. You already said."

"But you started choosing projects that were beneath you before that." He turned toward me and propped his knee on the bench. "I've always wondered why you did that." There was such a comfortable openness in his asking that I wanted both to answer him, and to tell him to mind his business.

"Work isn't below anyone willing to do it." An answer. A cop out.

"You had the option to do amazing roles. You were connected to adaptations of Tolstoy, Machiavelli…"

"Peter, if I'd known that you were going to be unhappy with the choices I made, I would have put more thought into them."

"I was just disappointed that you weren't taking your career more seriously."

"Yeah. Because I chose those roles by taping all my options to a wall and then throwing darts at them blindfolded. Maybe I had more important things to think about."

"Like you do now?" he asked.

"I'm not taking any roles now."

"I mean you have more important things to think about. If someone came at me like I came at you, I'd punch him and take off. You've stuck around to hear the story."

"Which I'm still waiting for."

"And now I'm lecturing you on your career, which has to be annoying coming from your agent, never mind a total stranger, and you're still here. So, that tells me you've got bigger problems someplace else."

"My husband would be impressed by you." I kind of was, too.

"I don't mean to be rude to you. You seem like a nice guy. Maybe too nice?"

"Maybe." I didn't attach anything to my answer. 'Too nice'—the flipside of selfish, which I had called myself earlier.

"So, you know, I'm sorry if I offended…." He drew his words out, staring at me as if I would signal the correct way for him to go with them. I didn't.

"I chose the roles based on location, not content. My brother had just gone missing. I didn't want any work that would take me out of the country."

"In case he came back."

"So, there's your answer. And, if I'm totally honest, the local stuff paid better, which made Bucky happy."

"Makes sense."

"So. My turn. Why are you being followed?"

He pulled his bag onto his lap. "He's not after me. He's after what I've got."

"What is it? The Hope Diamond in there?"

"You're not far off." He took out a camera, turned it on, and showed me the display screen. It had a very famous, recently pregnant actress and her as yet unseen infant front and center.

"Is that…" Shit. Shit. Shit. Didn't this just figure?

"First pictures of the new baby. No one knew where they were, but I did. I've got connections, and I can keep secrets."

"And that guy chasing you?"

"He's security. I've never run so fast in my life. I should quit this." He gestured to his cigarette so I would understand he meant smoking, not his job.

"You're a paparazzo." Turned out Peter fit in with the trajectory of my day after all.

"I prefer 'entertainment photographer'." His grin said that he was pulling my leg.

"So, am I going to see pictures of me kissing you in _Celebrity Spy_ next week?" Maybe I could get him to go back to my original impression and mug me instead. That lasted a second. Pictures lasted a lifetime. Bucky would have a field day with the publicity. The rumors they would start about me and Steve….

"No. No. Absolutely not. I needed help and you came through. Thank you."

"I would say 'anytime,' but…" I wanted to hug him. The relief was so strong that all my energy went out of me. I was boneless. It was a bad day when the only good thing was done by a paparazzo. Or was it an amazing day?

"Understood." He zipped the bag, the camera inside.

"You should have said earlier what you do." I wasn't ready to let go of his betrayal. He still owed me something for taking my trust.

"Why? You didn't start off with 'Tony Stark, actor.'"

"You didn't give me much chance for an opening line. And for the record, I would have said, 'Dad.'"

"There's no record."

"I should trust you on that?"

"Yes. Maybe I thought you wouldn't talk to me if you knew."

"I'll talk to pretty much anybody. For a little while."

"I'll remember that."

"Did you take the picture of me and my son at the zoo last week?"

"Yes. I got a tip. I didn't have anything to sell that day."

"I don't want you taking pictures of my kid anymore."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much. Between you and me, you only get followed when it's a really slow day. You lead a pretty dull life. No offense."

"None taken. So I should just hope someone is acting like an idiot in public and I'm in the clear?"

"You can count on it."

"That… actually explains a lot."

"So, you going to tell me what's bothering you?" He had the 'shrink' voice. I'd heard that enough this morning. I had to get this kid to meet Steve. Too bad he was a…

I snorted. "You're kidding, right? Why do you think--"

"You're still here."

"There is nothing bothering me." Mark…the book…Bucky and Natasha…Ian… Even if I were going to tell him, where would I start?

"It's your brother, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Fifteen years, coming up."

"How did you know about that?"

"You don't wonder how I know what roles you were considering at the start of your career, but you think it's weird I know what everyone in the country knows?"

"I'm sure a lot of people don't know."

"Have you met any of them?"

"I don't usually screen my acquaintances."

"Uh huh. Look, I already got my catch today.”

“I don’t know that you’re supposed to stop at one a day. Risky, isn’t it?” I let myself lapse into teasing.

“You can do whatever you want when you’ve got the right one. Whatever you tell me, I promise you, no one will know."

"Well, in that case."

"Really?" He leaned toward me, smiling. For that second, I could tell how young he was.

"No. I think I will get moving now. I can honestly say, this has been the most interesting morning."

"You're not going to tell me? After all we've been through? Is it because I'm a bad kisser?"

"Like you said—Mark is on our minds."

"Understood."

"Do you have a missing brother?"

"No."

"Then you don't understand."

"Right. I didn't mean…"

"No one ever does."

"Parker!" A huge man was coming toward us at full speed.

"Looks like we both have to run." He hopped up and started for the Ramble.

"Maybe you should consider a less dangerous job?"

His face lit up. "If there's no danger, there's no point." Then he was gone. I watched him run away, and watched the hulk of a man chase after him. What had I done that was as dangerous as that? There was a point to life, I wanted to tell him, that had nothing to do with danger. There was concern, and love, for other people, for family, and all the things you did to them that you tried to amend and forget. I got up. Steve would be at home, and I had new hope that the day could be redeemed.

 

#

He was sitting in the living room when I got back. "I was starting to worry about you, mister." He got up from his easy chair—it was his completely; Ian and I never sat in it—and kissed me. He leaned back, resting his wrists on my shoulders.

"I'm really sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to storm out like that." My hands went automatically to his waist.

"You apologized to Bucky. I thought that was very mature."

"It would have been more mature if I hadn't fought with him in the first place. Are they still here?"

"No. They left a little while ago. Left the book behind, though. Bucky made breakfast first."

"Oh boy." Bucky in the kitchen was not a good thing, not because he was a bad cook, but because he was a stress cooker.

"He used up all our flour making pancakes."

"He was that upset?"

"It was just pancakes, babe. I invited them to stay."

"When he was a teenager, he would come over and he and Mark used to make stacks of pancakes Saturday mornings. They'd make so many we'd have to freeze them."

"I didn't know that."

"It's never just pancakes. I'll call him."

"That's probably a good idea. Try not to get upset at him, all right?"

"I promise."

"So, what happened to you? I expected you back an hour ago."

"A paparazzo kissed me. On the mouth."

"Like this?" Steve demonstrated.

"More like this." I made a small correction.

"Should I be jealous?"

"He was kind of cute. Young, though."

"He?"

"Yep."

"Figures you would be acting out one of my fantasies when I'm not around."

"Isn't that just how the cookie crumbles?"

"Just don't do it again."

"I promise."

"If you really want to make it up to Bucky, you should do what he wants and look at the book."

"All right. I’ll look after breakfast. Are there pancakes left?"

"I'll make you something."

"You're going to cook?"

"Or we could skip the food and get right to the welcome home sex."

"That's probably the better option."

"I'm glad you agree."


	4. Chapter 4

“…with the goal of proving that not only is he alive, but he is living openly among those who search for him and paying regular visits to his brother in that place where anyone may go and be as a stranger—New York City.” I snapped the book shut and waved it at Steve. “This is what I’m supposed to be reading? Bucky thinks there is something useful in this?”

“Honey, quit pacing. You’re making me dizzy.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“You could write a letter.”

“Yes. 'Dear…'” I checked the cover. “'Mister Linney. I am writing to tell you—'"

“He could be a ‘Sir’,” Steve said helpfully.

“What?”

“You know how the British like to knight each other. He could be Sir whatever his first name is.”

“Right.” I checked the bio. “Doesn’t say anything about it. Besides, he’d probably put that right on the cover, don’t you think?”

A teasing smile met his lips. “I know I would.”

“So. 'Dear Mister Linney. I am writing to tell you that your book is complete shit. My brother has not been "paying regular visits"—that part in quotes to heighten the sarcastic intent—'to me, and if he had been, he wouldn’t be missing, and we would have no need for this God. Damned. Book.'” I flung it across the room. It landed on the couch with an impotent whump.

“Don’t take it out on the book, Tony.”

I dropped onto the cushion next to it. “Well, what should I take it out on?”

“You know, you’re right.” He came over and handed me the book. “Give it a good fling for me, too.”

I hurled it against the wall. 

“Feel better?”

“Immensely.”

Steve gave me a moment to calm down. "I put Sharon Lee's phone number on the refrigerator. You remember you promised to call her and make arrangements for Ian to start walking home with Bobby?"

"You think this is a good time to talk about this?" Why would he bring this up when I was already upset? It had taken me a week to open the book, and now Steve was bringing up Ian and his independence? Showed all the good my ignoring it had done.

"I'm on the road tomorrow, so yes, I do."

"I can't right now." I went into the kitchen to grab the grocery list. I ignored the phone number that now hung next to it. “Want to go grocery shopping?”

"That is one heck of a topic change." He yelled after me.

"We'll talk later. I promise. Do you want to go or not?"

"Is that something I do?" Ever since he became a national icon, Steve had someone else--either me, an assistant, or the internet--do his shopping for him. Whereas I could generally make it three feet without being recognized, he only made it one. 

I pushed back into the living room. “Come on. I bet you don’t remember how the other half lives.”

“I was at an outlet mall last week.”

“Signing autographs. But I bet you weren’t pounding any melons.”

“I’d like to pound your melons.”

I wiggled my ass. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m up for it.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m on a deadline to finalize this script I'm writing. But you have fun.”

“All right. I’ll leave you alone. But I don’t want any complaints about what I come home with.”

“When do I ever complain?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll pick up Ian on the way home.”

“All right.” He kissed my cheek.

I affectionately brushed him off. “Get back to work. I’ll see you later.”

#

I did the major grocery shopping at a natural foods store about ten blocks from home. Without Ian with me, I didn’t have the need to be vigilant, so I didn't mind chatting with the few people who approached me. My list was skeletal. I filled it in with ingredients from menus I kept in my head: garlic for sautéing vegetables, kale to be sautéed, apples and oatmeal for a crumble…. I was choosing between the store brand oatmeal and an Irish import when I saw my brother. A flash of dark blond, a bit of cheek, just enough of an eye from the side… I dropped the oatmeal into my cart, didn’t look at which one it was, and followed him into the next aisle. He had a head start and moved faster than I did. From behind, I stared at his jeans and sweatshirt and tried to figure out if I remembered them. I sped up, tried to get next to him. I knew it was crazy and irrational. I knew it wasn't him. But I barreled out of the aisle after him and collided with someone’s cart. It toppled, and her groceries went flying against the store’s row of freezers. I looked at her, on her knees after rolling oranges, and at him, already gone.

I stepped around the cart. I could still catch him. Felt something at my feet. Looked down. The woman had caught an orange that had rolled against my shoe. She was crying softly. I crouched down. “I am so sorry. Let me help you.”

She wiped her eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know why I’m crying. Just one of those days.”

“And here I’ve pushed you over.” I smiled again, didn’t know if it was enough for nudging her into tears.

She said thanks again as we put the last item back into her cart. We parted and I did another round of the store, but my brother was gone.

When had I started seeing him? Not the first year of his disappearance, nor while we were looking night and day—never once saw him then despite all the sightings we chased. Glimpses other people had. How jealous I used to be of these people! That they could have a glimpse of my brother, but not me. It hurt me, each time, that he would make an appearance to these strangers, teasing me, mocking, close, not close enough. Like sleeping in a room with a ghost next door. 

I didn’t see Mark until I stopped looking, and then he was everywhere. At the store, in the library, at the movies. In the park, when Ian saw a photographer, I saw Mark. I followed when I couldn’t talk myself out of it. Heart in my throat until he turned and shed his disguise and morphed into someone else, and I walked past, as if I had intended to do this all along and was not someone who would follow some stranger around—who would think that some stranger was someone he knew. Someone he loved. 

I found myself outside in a haze. I didn’t remember paying or bagging up my groceries, but they were in my hands and no one stopped me at the door, so I must have. I checked my pocket for my wallet. It was there. This was just the situation for walking off without it. 

"Mr. Stark?"

My paparazzo 'friend' was walking towards me, waving. What was his name? Dorian? Julian? Something like that. No. It was… "Peter!" My enthusiasm came more from remembering a name than from seeing him again.

"You remembered my name." He sounded delighted as well.

"Of course I did. But that doesn't mean I'm going to kiss you again."

"No need. No one's following me today."

"Yet."

He winked.

"So, who are _you_ following today?"

"Are you serious?"

"I can't be interested?" I asked.

He peered at me. "Are you?"

"No." It was impossible not to tease him. 

"Really?"

"Maybe a little. Who's the big 'catch' today?"

He showed me his camera. "It's a little blurry. I have to get a better one. She went in just before you came out. You didn't see her?"

"Who is it?"

He squinted at the picture. "Okay, if you can't tell who it is, then I definitely need to get another shot."

"It's…Mary Tyler Moore."

"It's Carol Danvers."

"Really?" I tried to take the camera for a closer look, but he held on to it.

"Oh, no. I know not to let actors touch cameras. They tend to have slippery fingers that delete things."

"You already said you couldn't use it. I just want a closer look."

"I've told you, it's Carol." He was getting petulant. I was tempted to snatch the camera and hold it over his head to see if he would jump for it like Mark used to when I took a toy from him.

"I thought she was in Guadalajara."

"Well, now she's on the Upper West Side. You really didn't see her in there?" He pushed the camera behind his back, as if he could tell that I was plotting to grab it.

"No."

"It was less than thirty seconds between her going in and you coming out." 

"I didn't see her."

"Head in the clouds?"

I shrugged. "Must have been."

"What were you thinking about that you walked past one of your friends?" There was something gentle in his concern. 

"What was she thinking about that she walked past me?" I countered.

"Oh, you're good." The gentleness fell away and he was all joker again, smiling, teasing. I wanted to touch his shoulder, yell 'tag' and run to see if he would follow. When had I last been so free?

"You'd better get going."

"You're not going to call her and tell her to sneak out a back door as soon as I leave are you?"

"It's an underground store, Peter. She probably doesn't have reception."

"So, you'll just let me do my job?"

"It doesn't mean I like you."

"You'll love me before you know it. I grow on people. But not in a grossly literal way."

"I think you can stop that metaphor any time," I said. 

"Sorry." He raised his camera and took a picture of me.

"What was that for?"

"Insurance. In case I don't find her. Or, you know, anyone else."

"Goodbye, Peter."

"Goodbye, Tony. Oh… about this week's _Celebrity Spy_?"

"Yes?"

"You aren't in it. Not even in the blind items." He pulled a copy from his bag and handed it to me. "You can check."

"I will."

He turned on his heel and darted into the store. 'I grow on people,' he had said. He was, perhaps, right.

I was late for getting Ian, so I hailed a cab to take across town. I opened the door and called him. He came running off the school steps, and stopped, staring at me as if I had pulled up in a pumpkin.

“I’ve got groceries.”

“Okay” 

Finally, he got in. He spent the ride staring at the driver's head.

When we got home, Steve was shut away in his office. Ian went up to the playroom, and I took the groceries into the kitchen. I put them on the table and sat down. I pulled the magazine out and tore through every page. No mention of me. Not with Ian. Not on my own. Not with an 'unidentified man' embracing on a park bench. Nothing at all.

"Tony—did you get a _Celebrity Spy_?" Steve came towards me with an expression of wonder that extended right down to his outstretched hand. I flipped the magazine over and presented it to him.

"Thought you could use a break from all that thinking, darling."

He kissed me as he accepted it. "You just thought you'd read it first?"

"Had to make sure it was appropriately brainless."

"And?"

"Read in good spirits, babe."

"Thank you." He peeked into the grocery bags. "I think your frozen pineapple is melting."

"Our frozen pineapple, dear." I moved to the freezer. He threw, I caught, and tossed the bag inside.

He pulled out a bag of fresh greens. "This is?"

"Kale."

"And it goes?"

"Refrigerator." 

Another toss.

"I love it when you're domestic."

"I do my best," he said.

"I know you do. Next?"

He held up a pair of sweet potatoes. "Refrigerator?"

"In that cabinet. Unless you want them for dinner."

Steve took on his usual expression that happened whenever he'd been focused on work. It was the face of a man remembering twenty things at once as they all flooded back into the recall center of his brain. "Oh, no…actually, we have plans for dinner."

"We do?"

"Carol called. She's invited us out."

"Ian too?"

"Yep."

"She was at the grocery store, apparently. I didn't see her."

"But you could tell by the swarm of flashbulbs?" Steve predicted. 

"Actually, it was just one entertainment photographer who told me."

"'Entertainment photographer'?" He chuckled. "You're going soft."

"I am not."

"This isn't the same one who kissed you the other day, is it?"

"Well—"

"It is! Should I be jealous?"

"Yes. Extremely." I kissed him and dipped him right down onto the table. 

He grabbed my collar. "If this is jealousy, bring on the green-eyed monster."

The door swung open and Ian trooped in. I scrambled off Steve, and we both smoothed down our clothes as he inspected the contents of the refrigerator. After a long minute, during which Steve and I tried very hard not to laugh and my hand snuck over to squeeze his bottom and got a slap for its effort, Ian pulled a juice box out and started to leave. As he reached the door, he looked at us. "I know what you're doing, and it's gross." Steve started coughing to cover his laughter. Then Ian was gone.

Steve looked at me. "I think it's time he had a refrigerator upstairs, don't you?"

"I believe I could make that one concession to his impending tween years," I replied. Then I kissed my husband and positioned him right back where Ian had found us.


	5. Chapter 5

The restaurant was in SoHo in one of the cobblestoned side streets. With three Michelin stars and a new chef, it was a hot ticket. A crowd of well-dressed people milling on the sidewalk outside gave evidence of that. Rich people didn't wait on line: they strategically clustered. I marched us up in front of the person who seemed to be at the head of the group pretending they weren't in a line.

"They’ve probably given our reservation away," I said. I couldn't see any empty tables through the windows that looked down on the patrons sitting six feet below ground level with a view of pedestrian ankles and bases of signposts.

“No, they haven’t,” Steve breezed through the restaurant's door with Ian behind as I held it open for them. 

"We're twenty minutes late."

"We'll still beat Carol," Steve said without a hint of concern. For all that America thought that he was Mr. Straitlaced-Sincerity, he had a flippant, snarky side. 

"I know."

"Your name, sir?" Steve cleared his throat, and the host looked up from his computer. "Oh! I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Stark."

"The reservation is under Stark tonight," Steve said.

“You are waiting for one more, yes?” the host asked.

“Yes.”

Another check of the computer. “Ah. I see. If you'll follow me.” He began to lead us to a table in front of the plate glass window. He had a bounce in his step that belied his bored expression. Putting us in front of the window where anyone could see and adding in Carol was good for a month of publicity. Which I loved. Could not get enough publicity. No sir. And Ian—had to stop him from begging strangers to take his picture. Constantly running after the kid. 'No, Sweetie, don't ask the nice lady to take your picture.' Tonight was going to be great.

“Is it possible to have a seat away from the window?” Thank you, Steve. Love of my life, that man.

“Of course, sir.” He pivoted. So did we. His step was flat, down to business. That's right, mister. We won't be your free advertising tonight. He swept us past the bar where a crowd of people was waiting for tables. They all glared. I guided Ian in front of me. He had a book with him and had not pulled his nose out of it since we got out of the cab. I pushed on his shoulders to direct him around the tables and out of the way of wait staff.

“Will this do, sir?” The host stopped at a booth near the back. 

“It’s perfect.” Steve countered him with sunshine. 

He waited until we were seated and then presented menus to each of us. He slid Ian’s beneath his book.

“Would the young man prefer to see our children’s selections?”

"Can I order now?" Ian said.

"Certainly, sir."

"Mashed potatoes, please."

"Buddy, I don't think you can only order mashed potatoes." I touched his hand and spoke into his ear.

"If the young man would like mashed potatoes, we can provide them," the host said.

"Thank you," Ian said.

“Yes, thank you,” I said. "And if you wanted to include a side of green vegetables, the young man's father would not object." 

He nodded smartly and disappeared.

"He hates us." Steve was beaming. "He could barely keep in his disdain."

"He hates you. I would have happily sat right where he wanted us," I lied.

"You love me for speaking up."

"Yes I do."

“We’ll have to move, you know,” Steve said. “Carol will want to sit next to the view.”

I glanced around. “With all the flashbulbs, she’ll be the view. At least she’s comfortable with it.”

“A little too comfortable,” Steve muttered, giving into his catty side.

“Darling, am I picking up on some jealousy?” I asked.

Steve stroked the table cloth like he was thinking of taking it home. “This is a perfectly fine table.”

“Well, maybe today will be different. She’ll come in here and not want to change anything. The table will be fine, the tap water perfect, the specials ideal.”

“Maybe," he mused. Then he snapped his head up. "What do you mean, ‘tap water’?”

“Gotcha.”

“Mm hmm.”

The room lit up as flashbulbs exploded through the window, lighting the glass with a stunning glare. Ian hunched over his book. 

"Ah. She's here," Steve said dryly.

A few murmurs from the other patrons as Carol swept in, more as they recognized Steve and me, or me and Steve, and silence. A return to clinking dinnerware and polite conversation.

“Steve! Tony! Ian!” 

Steve and I stood to greet her. Ian continued to read. 

"Hello, Carol Ann." Along with having permission to call Reynolds by her first name, Steve was the only person I knew who called Carol 'Carol Ann'. There was something about my husband that made people say, 'Here, call me by this name that I don't want anyone else to use.' 

"It's wonderful to see you, Steve."

They air-kissed. "You too. We're so glad you called. I know your schedule is crazy."

"Not as crazy as yours, _Captain_."

"Hey, what about me?" I held my arms out. She took my hands and air-kissed me. Then she stood back and examined us.

“Are you two coordinated on purpose?” 

“I didn’t notice,” I said honestly.

“Your sweater, Steve’s shirt--I thought maybe you were turning into one of those adorable little couples who plan their outfits.”

“We may have done that once or twice," I admitted, "but today was purely accidental.”

“Are we sitting here?” Carol looked at the booth with an uncertain smile. 

“We had considered it,” Steve said. “Did you want…?” He moved alongside me. We stood together, a united, marital front.

"Oh, but we chose this table especially for you. I know how you prefer to keep the distractions minimal while you're eating," I said. Steve punched me in the back. I beamed at Carol "A person could get indigestion from all those flashes going off."

“Well, maybe if they had something with a view…”

“Ian’s not enough of a view?” I said. We all looked at him, oblivious to us.

“Would you mind asking?" Carol said.

"Of course he wouldn't," Steve said.

The privacy was nice the few seconds it lasted. A person had to remember how to chew and smile at the same time to be friends with Carol. “No trouble at all. I’m sure the host will be happy to move us. I'll just go make his day.” 

The host was delighted to move us. The pep was back in his step, and he even pulled Ian's chair out for him before he started fawning over Carol. The restaurant would get its publicity. And, with the flashbulbs lighting up the room every few seconds, the other diners got to see what they were eating in something better than candlelight. 

“This is much better, thank you,” Carol said. We sat down. Menus were distributed again. A waiter dropped off a breadbasket. Carol ignored it. I desiccated a role. Between flashes, I scanned the paparazzi kneeling on the other side of the glass for Peter, but did not see him in the herd. 

Carol rubbed a bit of sleep out of her eye with the back of her knuckle and the café window lit up. "Want to make a bet that next week there'll be a story about my tearful dinner to go with that picture?"

"Not a chance."

She grinned and shrugged. "Steve, Tony isn't any fun."

"You did that to get them riled up," I said. "Like last month when you were going around touching your stomach all the time."

"I'm three months pregnant—according to a doctor who isn't treating me."

"Congratulations," I dead-panned.

“I do have some news, though. I’ve met someone.”

Steve and I shared a glance.

“I know what you’re thinking. His name’s Derek. He’s not in the business. And I’m keeping him secret for as long as I can.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“Almost six weeks.”

“Really?” I tried to keep the astonishment out of my tone. Steve nudged me under the table, which probably meant I'd failed. 

“I know—I’m already setting a record for myself. I’d really like you guys to meet him next week.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning,” Steve said. “I’ll be back next Wednesday.”

I raised my hand. “I’ll have lunch with you. You can come over to the house.”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” Carol said. Steve nodded.

“Why?”

“Because my appearance schedule is public," Steve explained. "And Carol will be followed. And, if she is followed by people who know I am out and who see her going to our building….”

“I’m not following,” I said. Steve frowned at my pun, but really, I was lost. 

Ian huffed. “People will think you’re having an affair, Dad.”

“Oh, for Christ’s… And where did you learn that word?”

"I got ‘Anna Karenina’ out of the library at school."

I sighed. "Of course you did."

Steve turned to Carol. "Bring him to Ian's birthday party in a few weeks."

She smiled in apparent relief. “Great.”

“Yeah, great,” I said. “Are you planning to show up with this guy? Because that could blow the cover, too.”

“He’ll come separately.”

“Well, sounds like you’ve got it all planned out.”

“Yes.” She closed her menu. “Anyone else ready to order?”

The waiter arrived with Ian's potatoes and set the plate down in front of him. 

"We're ready to order," Carol said.

"Wonderful." He unfurled a notebook and waited for Carol to begin.

"These potatoes taste funny," Ian said. Carol continued giving her order.

Steve reached over with her fork. "There's a little garlic in there." 

"And I didn't ask for broccoli," Ian said.

"I asked for you. Eat it," I said. He poked it. Steve gave his order too.

"Sir? Are you ready to order?" 

I looked up. "Grilled halloumi cheese with asparagus on a bed of mixed greens drizzled in olive oil, please."

"Yes, sir." He jotted it down and left.

"I've cleared it with Ann for Ian's vacation time," Steve said.

"Did you have any trouble?"

"Nope. And we're having coffee tomorrow." He grinned.

"We? Not me, right?" I could think of nothing I wanted less than to spend the morning with Reynolds. 

"She didn’t expressly not invite you—" Steve teased.

"I'm going to consider myself not invited."

Carol bit into a roll, sending flakes of crust fluttering to the table. The flashbulbs flared. "Reynolds still doesn't like you?"

"She hates me."

"Have you told her that you are adored by millions?"

"It hasn't helped."

"He thinks she's jealous," Steve said.

"Yeah, that's it." Carol had a glint in her eye. "So, where are you guys going for vacation?"

"California. It's a working vacation, but we're hoping to squeeze some private time in."

"Private time? In California?" she snorted.

"We'll lock the door to our hotel room. Ian's staying with Steve's dad," I said.

"On the farm? He'll enjoy that."

"It'll be a change, anyway."

"When do you leave?"

"Two weeks," Steve said.

Another flash from outside lit up the windows.

"How can you stand that?" Ian asked. He put his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Oh, I don't even notice it." Carol waved with pointed carelessness toward the windows.

Ian uncurled himself. "Yeah, that's why we had to sit in front of it."

"Ian." Steve held a low warning in his tone. 

"They're making it hard to read."

"Good. You should be eating."

He hadn't touched his potatoes. Or his green vegetables, but that was to be expected. He frowned and leaned on his elbow, hand in hair, squinting at the book.

"What's so interesting?" Carol tugged the book away. As she lifted it, I saw the cover. Desmond fucking Linney's name glared at me in embossed print. 

"Buddy, you aren't."

"It was on the table."

What?" Carol asked. She gave the book back to Ian.

Steve answered. "It's this book about Tony's brother. Quite the conversation stopper in our house lately."

I reached over to check how far Ian had gotten. He was not quite up to the testimonials from Mark's sexual partners. "I think I'll hold onto this, Buddy. You can finish it when you're older."

"How much older?"

"Forty-five."

"You aren't forty-five."

"Then I'd better not read it either."

He blew out his lips. Then he picked up a broccoli stalk and chewed, glaring more with each chomp.

"I used to have a cat that glared just like that," Carol said.

"You never told me that Uncle Mark was Papa's patient. Is that why he left?" He looked at Steve. "Were you a bad doctor?"

I stared at Ian for a long time. All the sound in the restaurant concentrated into a single woosh and the clinking of cutlery on china as if my ears were underwater. 

Steve patted Ian's shoulder. "No, Ian. I was a good doctor, but something happened and I couldn't be Mark's doctor anymore."

"What?" Ian asked.

"I met your daddy," Steve said. "I had to stop treating Mark because I fell in love with Tony. Ian, everything you've read is only speculation that man who wrote the book made up. Do you understand?" 

"But it says—"

"Mark was not angry with me. I would have known. Mark was a very expressive young man. He would have let me know."

I had a block in my throat that I could not breathe around. I choked out an "excuse me." I stood, wobbled, found my legs, and went to the bathroom, locked myself in—single occupant, thank God, and collapsed onto a wicker chair that for some reason was acting as decoration next to the sink basin. 

_"I saw Dr. Rogers today to see if he could be my counselor again and he said he can't because of his relationship with you."_

_"Buddy, I wanted to talk to you about that—"_

_"I don't care if you go out with him. It doesn't matter to me. But it is completely unfair that he's refusing to help me because of it."_

_"We're getting married."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"We're getting married. As soon as my filming wraps."_

_"You haven't even known him six months."_

_"I know. I never expected it would happen so quickly, but this is right. I've never been so certain about anything in my life."_

_"Well, that's saying a lot. Mr. Decisive, that's what we call you. Or is it Mr. Indecisive?"_

_"Buddy…"_

_"And what about me? I go pretend I'm fixed?"_

_"There are other counselors."_

_"I know. I've been to them. None are as good as him."_

_"Well, what do you want me to do?"_

_"Don't marry him."_

_"Do you think he'd want to be your counselor if I dumped him because of you?"_

_"I'll take that chance."_

_"He can help you in other ways. Why don't you take the chance on letting him be your friend instead?"_

_"You're leaving me."_

_"Now I'm leaving you? I thought we were talking about Steve."_

_"It won't be the two of us anymore. It's going to be you and him and sometimes me, when you remember, 'oh, I had a brother once, wonder what happened to him?'"_

_"I swore I'd always take care of you, and I will. You can come stay with us anytime you want. I am always here for you."_

_"Except when you're filming. Or on your honeymoon. And I assume you'll be house hunting; you won't be living here, will you?"_

_"No. We'll find a bigger place."_

_"So, when all that's over, I can come visit?"_

_"Don't say it like that."_

_"You're never selfish, Tones, so why did you have to make this the exception?"_

_"Because we can all be happy, Mark. I love Steve. I can't tell you how much I do."_

_"You don't have to. I can see it pretty well. I don't want you to be unhappy."_

_"That's not the same as wanting me to be happy."_

_"Happy isn't a concept I really understand. I wanted to work on that with Dr. Rogers, but now I guess I'll never get it."_

_"We'll talk about this."_

_"Are you going to marry him no matter what?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Well, I guess that's all there is to say, isn't there?"_

_"I guess so."_

_"I'm sorry I ever introduced you."_

When I went back to the table, the food was there. Carol and Steve started eating when I sat down. 

"How long has it been? Since your brother…" Carol asked.

"Fifteen years." Carol had never met Mark, and when she asked about him, it was with the same overreaching concern as someone talking to a victim of a disaster they couldn't hope to understand. I was tired, didn't want to talk about Mark. I concentrated on cutting a stalk of asparagus that I knew I wouldn't eat. "So, tell us about this new man."

Carol smiled. The spotlight was shifting back to her, which is where we were all most comfortable having it. And outside, flashes.


	6. Chapter 6

Miss Shannon pulled out the bench from the piano that was tucked away in the corner of Ian's classroom. She offered it to me with a sheepish wave. "Sorry about this—aside from my chair, we don't have any adult-sized furniture in here, usually. Of course, as you know, we bring chairs in for parent days…." 

"It's fine." I sat down. I tried not to bang the keys with my elbow as I waited for her to tell me why she had quietly asked to speak to me before I took Ian home. I had never had an unscheduled conference with her. The scheduled ones took about ten minutes. Ian was smart, quiet, and she wished he would speak up more in class; let some of that personality out that she could see simmering behind his inquisitive eyes. I would agree, and she'd show me a drawing he'd done, and that pretty much took care of it. 

So, I wasn't entirely prepared when she wheeled herself over on her desk chair and asked if things were going all right at home.

"What do you mean?" In the three years I had known her, Shannon had never asked about my private life. The first months, before I trusted her, I had quizzed Ian for any unwelcome curiosity that she might have expressed to him. She always came up clean in his accounts. So this was abnormal and unexpected from her, but common enough from other people to make me sit up and lean, just slightly, away. 

She noticed.

"I…don't mean it the way you probably think." I knew that my celebrity flustered her. She couldn't look me in the eye without blushing. Usually, I was careful when I spoke to her, so she would think that I was any other dad, but now I was tempted to use it to my advantage and throw her off this need to pry. I forced myself to hold off and give her a chance to explain.

"Then how do you mean it?"

She pressed her hands to her knees, all business, nothing but a teacher giving a report to a parent. Any other dad. "Ian's behavior has started to worry me. He got a seventy percent on the last two spelling tests. Usually he does ninety or better." 

"I saw those words. I can't spell 'preamble'. Or 'succotash.'"

"He and Bobby have been fighting."

"What? Hitting each other?"

"Not yet. But I've had to separate them more than once. He's pushed Bobby. I don't know if he's picked this up from one of your films, or—"

"I don't push people in my films." 'As you know,' I added silently. Steve and I had run into Shannon and a few of her friends outside a Forbidden Planet once. She had a 'Metal Man' tie-in comic in her hand. She claimed it was for her brother, answering a question we didn't ask.

"I'm sorry, I do know that, as you, uh, as you know." Her face went pink. "It's just that Ian doesn't normally do this sort of thing, so it's possible he's been exposed to something lately that would make him think fighting is the way to solve a conflict."

"I can't think of anything." Except for my trying to make Bucky eat carpet in front of Ian. "But I'll talk to him."

"I also think you should know that Ian was in time-out during snack time today because he told Bobby to shut up."

"Did Bobby miss snack time, too?"

"Bobby was doing his math at the time. Ian's outburst was unprovoked."

"I'll talk to him."

"I just thought you should know. If it's something that needs to be addressed…."

"Yes. Thank you for telling me."

"With any luck, he'll be back to his usual self soon."

"Yeah. Thank you."

She walked me to the classroom door. I went down the steps on my own. Ian was waiting just inside the exit doors. The little boy who had swan-dived into the flowerpot was sitting on the floor near him, looking sulky.

"Is your Papa not here yet, sweetie?" I asked.

He looked up at me. "It's daddy today." He sighed and turned his little face back to the window.

"All right. Well, you'll tell a teacher if he doesn't come soon, won't you?"

"Daddy always calls. Papa doesn't."

"Oh. okay" I didn't know what to make of this.

"Dad." Ian had pushed the door open and had one foot outside. "Let's go."

I looked down at the little boy, wondering if I should fetch Shannon—I was not going for Reynolds, no chance of that—but he seemed resigned to his fate and safe where he was, so I followed Ian out.

"What did Miss Shannon want?"

"She said we needed to practice your spelling words more." I caught the strap of his backpack and helped him get his arm through it.

"Anything else?"

"Do you want to tell me anything else?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"What else did she say?"

"Ian, I think you know what else she said, and when you want to talk about it, we will."

A lady pushing a stroller smiled at Ian. He stepped off the curb to let her pass. I did, too, but she didn't look at me. Some women only see children.

At the curb, we waited next to a newsstand for the light to change. Two of the magazines had photos of our dinner with Carol on the cover. Ian was set far enough from the window to be obscured, but Steve and I were present and identifiable. Just as Carol had predicted, they'd used the shot of her rubbing her eyes and blared a headline about the secrets behind her tearful dinner. I had to make a conscious effort not to thumb through it to see why they had decided she was upset. "Carol didn't really like all those people around when we went to dinner with her, did she, Dad?"

"She says she does."

"She's pretty weird." The light changed, and we crossed.

"I'm surprised you even noticed, the way you were reading that book."

"I was multi-tasking."

"Uh huh."

We reached the entrance of Central Park. "I didn't have any fun."

"Not any?" I asked.

"No."

"I'm really sorry to hear that, Buddy."

"I'm sorry to say it."

"Next time I'll bring the pepper spray and keep all those strangers away."

He perked up. "Really?"

"No. I guess we could leave you home with Bucky and Natasha. Would that be better?"

"No."

"I think it will be a long time before we're out to dinner with Carol again anyway."

"Good. It's too loud."

We walked through the park, talking about nothing. The animals we saw, red squirrels and green insects; some older boys running after a baseball; a Monopoly game started and abandoned because he said I cheated; whether or not it was time to get him a haircut. 

On the other side of the park, he said, "I'm hungry. Can we get a snack?"

"Why are you hungry? Did you miss snack time at school?" 

He didn't take my bait. "Can we just get a snack, please?"

I put my arm around his shoulders and steered him into a bodega. "Keep it light. We're having sweet potato ravioli for dinner."

He nodded and began inspecting the metal cage brimming with chips. “Dad, I was serious about walking home alone.”

“I know.”

“Papa said you were going to call Bobby’s mom and ask her.”

“We talked about that, yes.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I need to think about it.”

“Will you call her tonight?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You already talked to Papa about it, and he’s okay.”

“I know. Are you going to touch every bag of chips before you pick one?” 

"I'm looking for the right one." Statements like that were why I didn't take him grocery shopping with me. "Everyone walks home but me, Dad."

"Did you see any other kids from your class in the park today?"

"We got out late today. I am really the only one." I waited as he inspected more chip bags. He seemed satisfied to let the subject drop, so I started on my difficult one.

"Ian, I haven't really talked to you about what you saw the other day—me and Uncle Bucky fighting like a couple of…" I almost said 'ten year-olds'. "Idiots."

He pulled out a bag of cheese curls, shook it, and put it back.

"That was immature of me. Of us. We should have talked since we disagreed, not hit each other. So, you know, you shouldn't learn that from me as a method of conflict resolution."

"You can't talk to Uncle Bucky about anything." He was paying more attention to the chips than to me, but he still rattled off something he had learned from me.

"Yes, but I still sh  
ouldn't have hit him."  
Ian looked over, about to respond, when I noticed his eyes widen. I turned to find a man standing almost directly behind me. His light brown hair stood on end, and beneath his ragged leather jacket he smelled fishy. Not 'suspicious', but of fish.

"Are you him?" He leaned forward and I smelled the echoes of cheap beer on his breath. 

"Who do you think I am?" I used to answer in the affirmative when I was young and cocky, or more cocky than I was now, but that stopped when the 'him' in question turned out to be someone with a drug distribution business in his jacket and I, not being 'him', ended up running for my life away from the real 'him', who was waiting a few steps away and thought I was stealing his clients.

"Metal Man, man. Yeah, you're him." The man grinned. Red crept from his pupils in thin, jagged lines. He bobbed and weaved, as if we were going to shadow box. I kept still. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. I shoved Ian behind me as my internal warning system blared his category. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. Ian crashed into the chip cage. I heard the clatter-crinkle of boy on metal hitting cellophane, the crunch of smashed corn chips and cheese curls. I turned to check on him. He was glaring and rubbing his back, but he stayed behind me. “Metal Man is the shit, man. The absolute shit.” The guy still had hold of me. “Hey, that ain’t your kid, is it? Come ‘ere, let me see you.” He tried to get around me, and I moved with him.

Ian grabbed hold of my belt loops. 

“Sir, I need you to let go of my hand and back away.”

“Back away? Nah, man, we’re cool. I’m just telling you how much I like your work. Killing aliens and shit.”

“There aren’t any aliens in…”

“Warlocks or whatever.” The man was leaning again, trying to get a look at Ian, who had his head pressed into my back. “Hey, where’d you get a brown kid like that? I didn’t know you liked to fuck--”

I cut him off. "Sir. Really. I'm just trying to have a moment with my son. I'm glad you've enjoyed the films. Thank you for telling me."

Ian was tugging at me so strongly that if either he or the man let go, I would lose balance and fall. I reached back and gathered his hands into mine. He had started reciting subway stations in order--doing routes, we called it--and I knew what he looked like behind me, staring at the linoleum flooring to break off any chance of connection with this stranger, his mouth moving rapidly to keep up with his mutterings. 

"You giving me the brush off?"

"Sir…"

"Quit calling me 'sir', asshole. My name's Jason. Not that you would care."

"Jason. Please." I pasted on a smile. "I just want to take my son home." 

Ian was getting louder. Jason noticed and was, again, trying to get a look at him. "Jesus, what's wrong with your kid? He a reta—" 

I punched him before he finished the sentence. It... wasn't the best thing to do in the middle of a conversation about not using violence as a method of conflict resolution. Shit, maybe Ian was getting it from me. 

“Jesus.” Jason stumbled backward, cupping his nose. "I was just asking a question."

"Will you go? Wait--" I handed him a water bottle from the cooler. "I'm sorry. Put this on your nose. Don't tip your head back." 

“Fuck you, man.” He took the bottle and ran-stumbled away, out the door, moaning. I shook my hand out. Ian was staring at me, quiet. 

“Are you okay?"

He shrugged and, after all that inspection, grabbed a bag of chips without looking. I followed him up to the cashier. Lately it had started to embarrass him, these moments of blankness, when he retreated into himself, even though I told him he had nothing to be ashamed of. He had developed a way to separate himself from what was going on around him. I told him that I was even a little jealous of it. It didn't seem to help.

"I'll pay for the water he took and any other damages," I said to the owner-cashier. I pulled out my wallet.

"Put that away. I saw what happened. You have earned your bag of chips." He smiled down at Ian, who had already turned away. Seeing this, he said to me in a low voice: "If it were me, I'd have done more than bloody his nose." He nodded as if we now shared a confidence.

"Well. Thank you." I was careful not to agree, but not to let him think I disagreed, either.

I took Ian's hand as we went out. I bent down and kissed the top of his head, wishing, for a moment, to sweep him up and make him small and uncomplicated again. "I'm sorry about that, Buddy, but that's why I don't want you walking on your own. Things like that happening."

"That man wouldn't have come up to me if I was with Bobby. He didn't know me."

"He was on drugs, Ian. You don't know what he would have done."

He stopped, so I did, too. "Ian, come on." I pulled his hand, but he stood, legs locked.

"It's only ever because of you." He was almost shouting, on the verge of tears.

'Is not'—my instantaneous and unsaid response, wouldn't do. My awareness of the slender tree beside us, the wind, the cars passing, the people, disappeared; all my focus narrowed into my little boy and the trauma I had caused him. I wanted to grab him, pick him up and squeeze him, but I knew he wouldn't allow it.

"That's not true." I said, which was only 'is not' with more words.

A couple walked past, craning their necks at our sidewalk breakdown pageant.

"That guy is going to tell someone. It'll be in the news."

"Well, if that happens, we'll deal with it."

"Are you all right? Is this man bothering you?" The woman put herself between us.

"He's my son." Of all the times to not be recognized…. 

She looked at me, and at him. I pulled my phone out. "See? Family photos."

"I'm talking to my dad. We're fine," Ian said.

"Okay. Just wanted to make sure," she said. 

"Everything's great," I said, trying to wave her off.

She nodded and backed off to her husband or boyfriend or gay best friend. 

Ian dove right back in, the interruption a break, not an end, for him. "Name one time someone has come up to us because of me." 

"Aside from right now?" I asked.

"That's only because I'm fighting _with you_. "

"You don't know what would happen on your own."

"Neither do you." He started walking, head down, hands shoved into his trouser pockets and not waiting to see if I would follow him. He didn't need to, did he? 

"Ian, I need you to talk to me. Why is this so important to you? I thought you liked walking with me."

"You don't have to make everything about you, Dad."

"You just told me that these strangers are only ever because of me, and now I'm not supposed to think this is about me? Or because of me? Ian, what is it?"

He shook his head. Was it 'whatever' or 'I hate you'? He didn't speak to me again, and when we got home, he ignored Scott and went straight to the elevator. 

"Package for you, Mr. Stark. Looks like it's from the good doctor."

"Thanks." I took it and followed Ian onto the elevator. 

“Bucky is here,” Scott called as the doors closed.

“Dandy,” Ian said. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. I pinched the bridge of my nose and did not tell him to mind his manners.

#

I opened my eyes and pushed myself away from the elevator wall where I had been leaning with my head back. Ian was watching me, his hands pushed into his pockets as if he was waiting for something. "I'm sorry," I said, including both the things I'd done that Ian knew about and those he didn't in the meaning.

"It'll be in the magazines," he said, and I wondered if he was implying that if I thought I was sorry now, I'd be sorrier soon enough. 

"The man was too stoned. He won't remember anything." I repeated my reassurance from earlier.

"Not him. The guy at the register. He'll tell."

"He was a nice man. You have to trust people sometimes."

Ian's expression said it all. _Idiot_.

"When did you turn into such a cynic?"

The elevator stopped.

"I guess I was just born this way."

He walked out into the hallway. I followed him, a step behind, so he wouldn't see my hand clenching, silently suppressing the anguish on my lips over the damage I was causing my little boy by being me.

"Be polite to Uncle Bucky," I said in place of another apology.

He shrugged, looking at the door, not me. 

"Ian."

"Okay."

I opened the door.

Bucky was in his usual spot on the couch. His shoes were off and standing by the door. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. 

“Can I talk to you?” he asked.

Nor could I remember the last time he’d asked to talk instead of just starting in. “You’re here, aren’t you? Just give me a minute.” 

Ian started for the playroom. I caught his elbow, not willing to let him ignore the rules because he was sulking and not wanting to be alone with Bucky just yet, and pointed at his feet. He thought I was reminding him to be nice to Bucky and mumbled a hello that went unheard by its object. We toed our shoes off together. As soon as I released him, he took off.

“Is he all right?”

I ignored the question. "I'll be right back. I have to make a call." I needed to hear Steve's voice. A few words from him could put me back to normal, or normal enough to put up with Bucky. I carried the box into the library and set it on my desk. As I set it down, it started to ring. A phone in a box. How very James Bond. How perfectly Steve. 

I popped the flaps and pulled out a phone. The display showed Steve's number.

"You have impeccable timing, babe. I just opened the box."

"Not really. I've been calling every twenty minutes since I got the e-mail that the box was signed for."

"That explains why Scott was looking at me like that."

"I can imagine."

"So, why are you giving me a phone?"

"Two phones."

I checked the box. "Two phones."

"I know you've been having a lot of trouble convincing yourself to let Ian walk home from school on his own, so I thought this could be a solution."

"Phones?"

"One for each of you. All he has to do is press '1' to call you, and you do the same to call him. He can call when he starts off, when he's half way home…."

"Or he could talk to me the entire time."

"Yes."

"It's… very thoughtful. I'll give it some time to sink in."

"Baby, if you let it sink any further, it will drown you. I'm supposed to be on a panel now, so I'll let you go. I love you."

"Call your father about Ian staying with him, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Steve." 

"I said yes." Steve and his dad had a patchy relationship, but at least the old man was alive to have a relationship with. 

I smiled. "I know, darling. Just wanted to say 'love you, too.'"

I turned the phone off and carefully, carefully, laid it back inside the box. I closed the box up and put it on the floor underneath the desk in the study. I wouldn't be able ignore this much longer. One more day with my boy… I hadn't told Steve anything. Did I feel better from hearing him? Maybe. Yes. I told myself that I did.

I went back into the living room where Bucky was still waiting. He hadn't even turned the television on. He was sitting with his hands on his lap. "What was it you came to talk to me about?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Oh. Nothing. I think I'll just go."

"Suit yourself." If he didn't want to talk about something, I wasn't going to push him, not when I had more important things on my mind—such as fixing things with Ian. I would pave the road back to his trust the best way I knew—with food.

I started for the kitchen. The couch creaked as Bucky got up and followed me as though attached by a string. For some reason, he had chosen to ignore my dismissing him. He walked with the same reluctant stride I employed when Reynolds beckoned. Despite the comparison, I wasn't ready to sympathize with him. I was no Reynolds, and I didn't deserve the impression he was giving, that I could make him cower with a glance. It had never been true before, and I didn't believe he was scared of me now. 

Whatever he wanted to talk about was sucking his bravado from him and replacing it with this hesitancy, not me. I pulled two large sweet potatoes out of the cabinet. "Would you get out the cutting board and a knife, please?" Confusion crossed Bucky's face, briefly chasing away the dread there. It annoyed me even more. "Since you're here, you can help me with dinner. I mean, whenever you're done pretending that you don't know where things are." I ran the sweet potatoes under the water. As I scrubbed, he trudged to the correct locations for both items I'd requested. Gripping them, he sat down at the table, waiting. I handed the sweet potatoes over. "Cut the peel off, but leave about a half inch of flesh on it. Then cube the rest. Doesn't have to be exact, just small enough to cook fast." He nodded and set to it.

I took a midsized pot down from the rack over the stove, filled it with water and flicked on the gas burner and the oven. I put the pot on to boil. "Just like when we were kids, huh? You, me and Mark?" I didn't know what to do with his silence. It was strange; uncomfortable, when matched to his expression, and I wished he would just tell me what he came to say or that he would go. Instead, he offered only the smack of the knife on the plastic board as he pressured through the hard orange flesh. Natasha had probably made him come over for a final hash-out of our punch up, if we could call it that. I almost felt bad for him—Bucky hated confrontation, and Nat lived for it. She was never happier than when she was disagreeing with someone. He looked pathetic, as if he had pulled off his wolf's costume and exposed himself as a lamb… And I could only take so much more of this metaphorical stranger in my house. I decided to take the brunt of starting the topic off him—put us both out of our misery, so to speak.

"Look, Bucky, I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean the things I said. I shouldn't have hit you."

"Do you want these skins?" Not the reaction I'd expected. Not a reaction at all. He blinked at me, waiting to be answered, as if I hadn't said anything.

"Yeah." I swept them into a bowl. A drizzle of olive oil, a dash of salt…. "Bucky--"

He cut me off. "I pushed you first; that's how I remember it."

"I shouldn't have punched you, anyway."

"I've been annoying you since we met." He picked up the knife again and returned to his chopping. 

"Even so." The oven beeped its readiness. I spilled the skins out onto a baking sheet and slid it into the oven. "Are you done with that?"

He held the cutting board up to me. I took it and carried it to the stove, where the water was starting to boil. I slid the orange cubes into the pot. They broke the surface with a plop, a displaced drop of water splashing up for each one, and then the initial dive to the bottom and immediate resurfacing, bobbing on the top like lazy water park swimmers floating along in inner tubes. I put the lid on at a jaunty angle so it wouldn't boil over.

From the freezer, I grabbed a mound of dough wrapped in wax paper. I dropped it in front of Bucky. Two more moves and I had the flour in one hand and the rolling pin in the other. I offered these to him as well. 

"Let me guess—I should start rolling?" he said.

"Please." 

He pushed the dough aside so he could sprinkle the table with flour. "Now, this is the cooking I remember. Me getting flour all over myself while you stood back and watched." He was beginning to slide himself back together. I could almost see the pieces of his confidence slipping into place as he started handling the dough.

"You and Mark had a rhythm. I didn't want to interfere."

"You didn't want to get your hands dirty."

"Maybe I'll surprise you today." I pulled four tumblers down. "Red or white?"

"Red," he said. I nodded my approval. I pulled a wine bottle from the cabinet and filled two of the tumblers to the halfway point. I passed him one. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." I sat down opposite him with my wine and the two empty glasses. I turned them upside down.

"What are you doing with those?"

"Surprising you." I started making circles in the rolled out dough with the top of the glass. When he saw what I was doing, he took the other one and did the same. 

"I don't know if it counts as getting your hands dirty when you aren't touching the dough. The glass is giving you a good three inches of leeway."

I held up a finger. I lowered it to the dough. Touched. Raised it. "Happy?"

He almost cracked a smile. "You didn't even dent it."

"I didn't want to put any flaws into your good work."

"Uh huh." He eased the unused dough away from the circles and started balling it up to roll out again. "What are we making anyway? Or is that a surprise, too?"

"Ravioli."

"Figures you'd make it from scratch."

"Well, as you've said, I don't do anything else. May as well cook. More wine?"

He nodded. I obliged.

"You haven't touched yours," he said. "You trying to get me drunk so I'll start talking?"

"Do you need me to?" _Start_ talking? He wasn’t here about the fight? Then what…? The book. It had to be that damn book….

He smiled at his glass. I turned the bottle around and pretended to look at the label as I centered myself in preparation for what was coming. "You know, if it works on you, I might try it out on Ian…."

"Now that's parenting."

"I was kidding."

"Me too. Come on, you don't think Natasha and I are at home telling Cassie to drink up, do you?"

I took a second too long to say no. Cassie was remarkably well-adjusted considering she was Bucky's child. He laughed anyway. "Well, we're not."

"I believe you. Cheers." I raised my glass to him.

"Cheers." We clinked across the table. I had a sip. Then I stood up to stir the sweet potatoes. 

"Natasha was right, you know. We do love each other. Our marriage isn't any kind of farce," Bucky said. I didn't know if he was saying it in relation to the parenting topic or if it was out of the blue. "I want you to know that because I don't think you do."

"I do. I was out of line the other day. I'm sorry." I stirred the top cubes down to the bottom with a wooden spatula. 

"You think that we married each other because of Mark. But I care for her so much."

"I know. I'm sorry, all right?" I didn't know why he was dragging this out, or what it had to do with the book, but I wanted it stopped before he started comparing his marriage to mine. Then I turned around from the stove and saw him. He was looking at me, somewhere between desperate and scared. In that moment, I understood. This was what he wanted to tell me. This was the start of it. This, not the book, not the fight. He seemed to prefer talking to my back. So, I faced the stove again. And waited.

I didn't wait long.

"I need you—I need you to understand where I'm coming from, me and Natasha, our marriage, because of what I'm going to tell you. I want you to realize it's not any kind of compromise."

"Okay."

"You understand."

"Yes."

"You weren't wrong. Mark and I…we were more than friends. We weren't ever officially together, but, I think, if things had been different—if I wasn't so aware of what people would do if they knew, we might have been."

I slid away from the stove, keeping my back to him—not for his benefit anymore, but for mine. "It would have been okay I mean—I would have been fine with it, and I'd have told Dad--"

"Don't pretend you were worldly when you were young, Tony. You hardly are now." 

I looked over my shoulder at him. "You don't have to be worldly to not be a homophobe."

"And you're forgetting about that kid Sam Marshall. He almost died because someone thought he was gay. Thought he was. He was just wearing a pink shirt. His mother didn't recognize him when they called her to the hospital."

"I remember when that happened."

"I got scared, and I told Mark we couldn't see each other anymore."

"Okay."  
He breathed. "It was the day before your wedding."

I spun around. He straightened in his chair, as if he was preparing for a dive in case I lunged. I stayed where I was. I could not move. Something was choking me from the inside. For a moment, we watched each other. I kept my response measured so I wouldn't scream. "Are you saying that's why he left? Because of you? Are you saying that I've been blaming myself all these years when I could have been blaming you?"

Bucky squared his shoulders. "You would have found a way to blame yourself whether I'd told you or not, and I'm sorry, but I wasn't going to tell you back then." 

"So, why are you telling me now?" 

"I thought it was time." He spoke with cold defiance, and I wondered if I had been wrong about Natasha making him come, or if she even knew he was here.

I found myself looking at the floor, at the cabinet, anywhere but at him. It might be true that I would soak up the blame, but who was he to say it? I walked to the refrigerator and took out the bunch of kale, still not looking at him. I ripped the leaves off the stems over the sink. 

"You've told Natasha?" I rinsed the leaves and put them on the cutting board. 

"Of course."

"Before or after you got married?"

"I'm not going to tell you that."

"Fine. All right. So why is it time now? No other moment in the past fifteen years would do?"

"You have a savior complex."

"And you have a 'not taking credit for things you do' complex. So what?" I asked.

He gestured to the stove. "Your potatoes are boiling over."

I stretched to the stove and lowered the temperature on the burner. The frothing water settled to a rolling boil. I started chopping the kale into tiny pieces, forcing my concentration away from him and onto maintaining my fingertips. From the corner of my eye, I could see Bucky making circles in the dough. "Does Steve know?"

"I don't know if Mark told him. We were together when he was Steve's client. I never asked what they talked about. Natasha and I haven't said anything to him."

"All right, so, it's the fifteen year anniversary coming up, and you want some of the blame, too. Is that what brought this on? You got it. I have been so selfish in hogging it all for myself. Please, enjoy your new guilt." I spread my arms and distributed my generosity.

"Tones."

"Tony." The syllables snapped on my tongue, as bitter as the uncooked greens in my hands. 

"Do you think I don't have guilt? Do you think it's new to me? I've had it as long as you, and I couldn't say anything, could I? 'Poor Tony!'" Glass, muted by dough, pounded the table. "Everyone gathers around you, comforts you, because you're the only one who doesn't know that you didn't do a damn thing wrong. No one blames you. You only think they do."

"My father didn't speak to me for six months."

"You didn't speak to him for six months! You can be so—and we let you. All of us! We just let you because 'poor Tony, he's been through so much.' Mark was my best friend. I loved him. And I couldn't tell anyone. I wouldn't even let myself accept it. I pushed him away. And he disappears the next day, and I have to spend fifteen years pretending to pity you, who did nothing wrong?" Bucky was almost shouting. I felt both struck and enraged.

"Mark needed Steve. Maybe he even loved him. He was furious with me when we got engaged." The words felt weak and bitter, the ammunition of an argument failed before it started.

"Steve was his therapist. He was in love with me." Bucky lowered his voice, and sat on the kitchen stool and breathed until his face faded from red. "But tell me something—how come we're not blaming him? He's the one who ran out. Doesn't he get some credit?"

"Sometimes I think, 'if I see him again, I'll kill him," I admitted.

"Me too." 

I sighed, ready to give up this angry energy. "I see him all the time. There was a man today—this is why Ian's mad at me. A guy accosted us. He tried to get close to Ian, and I punched him."

Bucky whistled an exhalation. "Fists of fury lately, aren't you?"

"I got scared. He was erratic."

"So you punched him?"

"He… yes. Ian saw. Freaked him out. So, between that guy and you, I can only imagine what he thinks of me now. I thought he was Mark."

"What?" Bucky asked.

"The guy. When I first saw him, I thought he was Mark. I almost hugged him. Then he started talking and… just another nutcase. You know, I've been telling myself for years that he's dead, but every time I convince myself I believe it, I'll see him again and get my hopes up."

"Why would you want to believe that?"

I took a steadying breath. "Because it's going to be true some day, and I want to be ready."

"You won't be ready," Bucky said. Like me, both of his parents were dead, and he spoke with the resigned certainty of experience.

"I know that. I do."

Bucky's expression took on a new resolve. "He's not dead."

I sighed. "Bucky, the book--"

He barreled over me, his words now a gust that wouldn't be stopped. "There's something else I came to tell you. I saw him five years ago. I almost said something, but he looked at me and I lost my nerve. But it was Mark. I'm sure of it." A pause. "Almost sure of it."

"Where?"

"I was in Hartford, walking down the street, and I saw him sitting in a café."

I leaned forward, taken in against my will. I wanted so badly to believe. "What café?" 

He opened his mouth to answer, and I hung on the moment. Then, he shook his head and: "I don't remember." I deflated. 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't tell anyone. Our eyes met. He put an expression on his face like I was a stranger to him, but for a second, I saw fear. He didn't want me to know him. So I pretended I was interested in the girl he was with and I kept walking."

"He was with a girl?" Now I pressed myself backward into the counter. I needed more space between the two of us. Bucky made it so easy to forget that I was not a violent person. Five years he kept this secret….

"Yes. They seemed, until I came up, very happy."

"You never told anyone," I said dully.

"No."

"What about Natasha?"

"No one."

"You see your best friend and you just keep walking. Bucky, every day you kiss strangers and act like being in the same world with them has made your life worthwhile—but you see Mark and do nothing? I don't understand…"

"He didn't want to be found. I could see it in his face. You think I'm obtuse when it comes to reading you, but not for him. I know every expression, every squint, every twitch. He wanted me to leave him alone."

"So why are you so adamant about finding him now?"

"You'd better check your sweet potatoes." With my back to him as I did that, he answered me. "I wish I'd stopped. Every day since then, I've wished I'd stopped. Why was that the one moment in my life when I didn't ignore someone's attempts to tell me to shove off? I'll tell you it's because I loved him, but a lot of good it's done me, hasn't it? Or any of us. I'm done with thinking of what he wants. We've punished ourselves long enough, Tony. Let's find him."

The fork went through clean, so I turned the burner off and moved the pan out of the heat. "Maybe it's done him some good, though, being away from us if we were so… difficult." I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling as if I might cry over the hot water, and of all the things I could do at that moment, this was the least appealing by far. "What if he still doesn't want to be found?"

"But what if he needs to be? I missed my opportunity. I want it back. Maybe it's selfish of me, but—that shouldn't be any big surprise, should it?" He started banging the glass into the dough again. I turned around, and he was tearing pieces out. 

"Don't."

"What?" The glass in his hand stilled.

I drained the sweet potato chunks into a collander. "You've always been too hard on yourself, Bucky." When he was a kid, Bucky practically had a perfection complex. Being younger, he put it upon himself to keep up, to be needed and included. 

"You're saying that to me? You?" 

"Yeah. Would you mind—you'd better go before I come to my senses and tell you what I really think about you." 

He considered, and made his decision. "All right. Good luck with Ian."

"Thanks." I grabbed his wrist as he walked past, and I did something I had never done before in all the years I'd known him. I hugged him. He responded fiercely, nearly crushing me, and when we separated, he gave me one of his shit-eating grins.

"We've broken a wall today, Tones."

"Get the fuck out of here, Bucky."

"I know you'll never admit it, but you do love me."

"You're right. I'll never admit it." I turned around to dump the potatoes back in the pan for smashing. When I looked back, he was gone. All back to normal. Except for this new information. I didn't know what to do with this decade-old news. The hope it gave me that he could still be alive was an ebbing and waning sort. Alive, yes, but five years ago. On the other hand, if he was not killed the night he disappeared, and he was alive ten years later, there was a good chance he was living today, wasn't there? A good chance he was out there to be found….

I started preparing the kale and set it aside to go on the pan with the sweet potato skins in their last minutes of roasting. I should be using the few minutes I had to call Steve, I knew, but I didn't move. This, I needed to think through on my own first. Bucky hadn't touched his wine, and I'd forgotten about mine too. I poured his down the sink. It was a cheap vintage anyway. Bucky couldn't tell the difference. Setting my glass next to the cut dough, I continued the task of putting the ravioli together.

#

Ian continued to ignore me until supper when, in a fit of pique myself, I put his plate of ravioli directly on top of the piano, and he glared like he had any idea how much that piano had cost. I sat down next to him, and he grabbed the plate and stalked over to the couch. Still the same room, so he didn't completely hate me.

I turned around and started playing piano myself. I didn't really start playing until I was an adult. No music in the Stark home growing up. I started after ducking into an empty bar on MacDougal Street and becoming mesmerized by the guy in the corner playing the piano, and maybe that was why I gravitated to jazz sounds whenever I hit the keys. Sometimes, to make my classical son groan, I'd do a rendition of Berlin's 'I Love a Piano', complete with impromptu tap dance from the bench and riffed scales. But I wasn't really good at it. Not like Ian, who could play anything without flaw upon introduction. Once I got used to a piece, over time, it was like flying without leaving the ground, a release and a distancing, and it was so easy to understand why Ian could prefer hours and hours at this over a few minutes with another person. 

"Buddy, I'm sorry about today. I am."

He sat, staring at the television, chewing his pasta. "What was in the box?"

"Nothing."

He looked at me, just a glance, but I knew he could tell that I was lying. All of a sudden, I couldn't look at him. I waited for him to call me out.

"Can I beat you at checkers?"

"What?"

He pulled the game out of the cabinet. "I'm going to beat you this time. Watch."

I started setting the game up. Red for him. Black for me. "We'll see about that."

Ian played checkers like he did everything else—with a plan and a focus that included only that plan. Beating him was easy. Act outside the plan and he ignored it. We each played a different game on the same board. Me moving toward him, him moving toward me, crossing in the middle. I won because I could adjust my plan to include his. He lost because he could not see mine, never mind make a change to out strategize me. When I won, he asked for another game. I won that, too. Then I sent him to put his pajamas on. I sat at the piano while he was gone. A few pages of his music were on the stand, and I made an effort, but it was all so much of a garble to me. I closed my eyes, put myself into a smoky French bar and my fingers took care of the music. From my soul straight out to the keys. I felt Ian sit down beside me, the weight of his head on my shoulder.

"You can't play my music. You're really bad at it."

"That's my supportive boy." I played a few more notes.

"You're okay at yours, though." He spoke with his usual matter-of-factness that was the hallmark of his natural sincerity.

"Let's get you to bed."

We walked down the stairs to his room. I tucked him in and kissed him. I left the bathroom light on so he could see if he had a nightmare and needed to come find me.

He didn't.

But I dreamed about the man in the bodega and Ian's words. "He's not like the others" going round and round in my mind.


	7. Chapter 7

Steve was on the road when I called Bobby's mom, but it felt like he was standing right behind me.

"Mrs. Lee? This is Tony Stark, Ian's Dad. Listen, I wanted to ask you…"

She said yes. No problem. She was glad that Bobby would have someone to walk home with; she would walk him herself if she didn't have to work. I said thank you, said that Ian would be delighted, and chose to think that she wasn't taking a dig at me with the comment about having to work. I had met her twice before. She was an ad exec, always running someplace or another, always answering her phone. She did have to work, but not for money. She was the sort of person who would disintegrate if she ever had to stop working. 

"Monday to start?"

She said yes. That would be fine. I hung up and stared at the phone. I could tell Steve she said no. Ian hadn't mentioned it in awhile. Maybe he had forgotten.

Except I couldn't lie to Steve. Except Ian never forgot anything. 

"Buddy, come in here, please."

He stuck his head into the room and looked at me. "I didn't do anything."

"Anything like what?"

"On television, parents say, 'come in here' when kids do stuff. I haven't done anything."

"Oh." I tried to remember if my parents had said it. I couldn't. "Sorry. No, look, come here. Papa sent us a present."

"He did?"

"Yes." I pulled the box out and showed him. "Open it."

"You already looked?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"Open it."

Ian pulled the flaps apart. "Phones?"

"One for each of us."

He pulled them out. "What for?"

"I called Bobby's mom," I said.

Suddenly, I looked like the center of Ian's world again. "You did?"

"And, if you want, you can start walking home with him tomorrow."

"Okay."

"But you have to call me when you leave school."

"I will."

"Do you know how to use speed dial? My phone is number 1 on your speed dial, but I want you to memorize the full number as well."

"Okay."

"No one else has the number to these phones. Just you, me, and Papa. If there's an emergency, I want you to be able to dial fast."

"Okay."

I had a vision of Ian dialing while running from danger and wanted to snatch the phone back, but I restrained myself. 

"I'll be fine, Dad." He put his arm around my waist. "You have to start letting go sometime."

I stared at him. "Whose kid are you?"

He smiled. "I've been reading Papa's book."

"Youth, Tenacity and the Socioecomic Contract?"

"The Progressive Parent."

I hadn't even read that one, and I was pretty sure I was a case study in it. "In this case, kid, you are definitely your papa's son."

"Thanks, Dad." 

"Yeah." Maybe because I’d never stopped calling my father ‘Daddy’, the fact that Ian had stopped with me made it hurt all the more. I could handle him growing up—almost—but losing that word wrecked me.

"See you at dinner."

"See me at…? Get out of here."

He kissed me on the forehead and left, already pushing buttons on his phone. I hadn’t even turned mine on yet. From the other room, he yelled, "Turn your phone on, Dad. I'm trying to call you."

"Sorry." I pushed the green button, which logic told me would turn it on, and watched as a series of colored bars exploded onto the screen. "It's on."

It rang.

"Hello?"

"Is Dad there?”

"This is Dad. To whom am I speaking?"

"Ian."

"Hi, Buddy. How are you?"

"I'm good. Dad, do you know what?" 

"What?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Okay Bye."

"Bye."

Tomorrow, it would start. I had done all I could to stop time. Now all I could do was go along.

#

After I put Ian to bed, I called Steve. "I told Ian. I gave him his phone."

"I'm proud of you," Steve said.

"I want you to tell Reynolds about the vacation. You clear it with her for Ian to miss school."

"All right."

“Steve, in this book-- there's a woman who claims Mark visits her. If we could find her—"

"According to Bucky, the author isn't giving up his sources, which might make someone wonder just how true these sources are." I was touch-and-go about Steve using his television voice on me. In this case, I wasn't liking it.

"All the more reason to speak to them, right?" I prodded.

Steve responded in his normal tone. "If they exist. Linney could have made them up."

"He could have. But maybe he didn't."

"What's your plan?"

"I've been trying to remember if Mark ever had a girlfriend. I don't remember him talking about anyone special, but you know, I didn't always…"

"Tony."

"…pay much attention to him after I moved out."

"You were trying to grow up, yourself. You were busy."

"I should have made time for him. I was thinking—if you could tell me who you know Mark had a friendship with in therapy, maybe we could start from there. Maybe a patient you caught Mark in the closet with….”

“Babe, I think you may have a skewed view of what goes on in group therapy.”

"Give me a list of people he got along with, then. It could help."

"What would you do with it?"

“I think I know someone who could help.”

“Who?”

“Peter.”

"Who?"

"The paparazzo I've been seeing."

“Interesting turn of phrase. Tony…”

“He’s got resources. He could… maybe. I could give him a copy of the book. Tell him…”

"Tony, you cannot give Peter free rein to start bothering everyone who might have been in therapy with Mark. And I am certainly not going to help you do that by giving you a list of people. These are people with serious problems, who we have tried to help pull their lives together. Think of all the people he'll disturb. All the work he'll undo."

"If someone was in love with Mark, think of how much his disappearance has already undone them."

"Tony—"

"I don't want to hurt anyone."

"I know you won't mean to," he said gently.

"We'll be careful. With your help. Please, Steve."

"Even if I approved of this, I couldn't give you the names. It's confidential."

"Steve, please. Do it for me."

"Do you understand what you are asking? Do you really?"

"Yes. I'm asking you to put me ahead of your patients."

"Tony."

"What if Peter could find a way to find out who it is on his own without disturbing anyone?"

“You’d better figure out a sure way to know you can trust him first.”

“And if I do? If he pulls through with something so that we absolutely know that we can trust him not to exploit the people he talks to and it convinces you, too?”

"And not to exploit you, either."

"Yes." I couldn't believe I was so close to getting Steve to agree. 

“Then you can talk to him about helping. I can’t give him a list of my former patients’ names. That’s all up to him to find.”

“I understand.” I nodded even though Steve couldn't see me. This was actually happening. Even though I didn't expect anything to come from it, after Bucky's confession, I felt like there were answers within reach at last.


	8. Chapter 8

Ian was suspicious until I dropped him at school. He stirred sugar into his cereal suspiciously. He put his shoes on suspiciously. He held my hand suspiciously. (He still held my hand!) Each task was done while looking straight at me, eyes slightly narrowed beneath his mop of hair. Once he was bundled up, his eyes were the only part of his face I could see. Just little slits of disbelief.

We walked across the park mostly in silence, which wasn't unusual for us. Even though he woke up at six a.m. to practice the piano, he generally respected that I wasn't a morning person and let me stumble along the path like a zombie while he stomped through the grass along the paths. 

Outside the school, I gave him the usual check for leaves and sticks, or anything else that might be stuck to his pants or shoes. "Stop looking at me like that," I said.

"Are you going to be at school when I get out?" he asked.

"No, Ian. You're walking home with Bobby today." I made my tone as carefree as possible. It didn't lessen his suspicion.

"Yeah, but how do I know you won't change your mind?"

"When I go home, I'll chain myself to the desk."

He pulled his scarf down so I could see his mouth. "Promise?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "That's not a very sturdy desk. And if we have chains, I've never seen them."

"I'll stop by the hardware store." I put my hand over my heart. "I solemnly swear, to you, Doubting Thomas—"

"Ian, Dad." 

"Look it up, son. I solemnly swear, to you, and in front of all here witnessing, be they human, bird, insect, or rodentia, that I will be at home at three o'clock this afternoon, waiting for your call and not at your school, where I would much rather be." I dropped to my knees and clutched his shoulders. "My little boy is growing up so fast." I blinked rapidly and worked up a few tears.

"Ha, ha."

I got up and flicked the pompon on his hat. "Yeah, yeah." I sensed Dr. Reynolds' presence. "Get going, Buddy. And don't forget to call as soon as you leave."

"I won't."

I started towards the entrance with him. The spider-obsessed boy, Benji, was hovering around the planters again. A different teacher stood near by, greeting students as they arrived. 

"Dad? Where are you going?" Ian asked.

"I have to tell Reynolds I'm not picking you up. Otherwise, she might make you wait for me. You'd be here all night because I am not breaking my promise to not come get you."

His expression changed to one of compassion and understanding. He patted my arm. "Do you want me to hang around and protect you?"

"I think I'll be all right. Get out of here." I smacked his back and sent him scurrying into the building, laughing.

Reynolds had been talking to Miss Shannon, but now she looked at me. "Mr. Stark."

I forced a smile. "I just wanted to tell you that Ian is going to start walking home with Bobby today and probably most other days as well."

"Which Bobby?"

Shit. What was his last name? 

"Lee," Miss Shannon said. "Right, Mr. Stark?"

"Yes. Bobby Lee. Thank you."

"All right. That should be fine. If anything changes, call the school."

"I will." 'Should be fine'? She wasn't sure? Was this Bobby a bad character? Should I put a stop to this? Reynolds continued to smile at me as if I were a slow child. I started to back down the steps. "It's been a pleasure as always, Dr. Reynolds."

She ever-so-slightly inclined her head. I hit the ground and retreated with as much dignity as I could muster while still taking all advantage of speed.

"Benji!" I turned at the exasperated voice to see what Benji had done now. To my surprise, he was being carried... by Peter. The boy dangled under his arm. Instead of squirming to get away from a stranger, Benji looked up and beamed. He held his hand out. 

"I caught a black and yellow spider!"

Peter put him down. "Did you have to run into traffic to do it?"

I walked up to him. "Are you following me to school now?" Even the lowest scum of paparazzo had the decency not to snap me in front of my kid's school. Maybe I'd misjudged Peter. I'd have to eat crow to Steve now.

"I'm not a little lamb, Tony." Peter said. Benji giggled. He ran over to the planter and carefully set the spider on the lip. "I'm not following anyone."

Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm dropping off my son."

"Your what?"

He gestured to Benji. "My son." Benji turned around and waved happily. The teacher I didn't know took his other hand.

"Bye, Daddy!"

"Be good today, Benj!" Peter turned to me and shrugged the shrug of a dad who has lost all hope but is generally okay with that. "Walk you across the park?"

"Sure," I said. "Sorry about that."

"It's fair," he replied. We walked, and I snuck glances, trying to size things up and shift things around and make sense of him being Benji's dad. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Just thinking, the first time I saw Benji he was upside down in that planter, and the first time I saw you, you were falling out of the Ramble. The apple does not fall far from the tree."

He snorted. "He gets his spider obsession from me too."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yep. I can name every variety. I take him on nature walks all the time."

"That sounds nice."

"What do you and Ian do together?"

"We ride the subway."

"What?"

"He likes trains."

"Oh." Usually when I told someone that, they reacted like this fact filled in something about Ian that they'd been missing, but Peter's tone was pleasant and unassuming. It was the reaction I'd needed. 

"Peter, I want to ask you to do something for me. To hire you, I mean. But I need to know I can trust you."

"Well, I didn't run pictures of you when I said I wouldn't. Beyond that, what do you need?"

"I think you know everything about my life. Tell me about yours." I dodged out of the way of an oncoming horse and carriage, pulling him with me.

"Thanks. I grew up in Queens, went to Bronx Science, my parents died when I was young. My aunt and uncle took me in, my uncle was killed by a two-bit criminal. Then it was just me and my aunt." Instead of walking again, he stopped and looked down into Turtle Pond. I knew from experience that sometimes it was easier to talk about difficult things when you could focus on something else. The pond was frozen over, except for a few places where tree roots dipped into the water. A handful of dead leaves floated in the limited space. 

"So you've got a family tragedy in your history too." Knowing this made me feel even safer with him. 

"My aunt gave me my first camera. It helped me see the world again. Seemed easier behind a lense."

"It must have been hard for you." 

"With my parents, yes. They died in a car crash."

"So did mine," I said quietly. I watched as a leaf floated beneath a mass of overhanging roots. 

Peter made a quiet sympathetic sound. "But my uncle.... I could have saved my uncle, and I didn't, and that's on me."

"Saved him how? Were you with him? I'm sure there was nothing you could have done."

"This guy, this crook, I saw him earlier that day robbing somebody, and it was somebody who'd been a dick to me, so I was, like, not happy, but I didn't care, you know? I could have called the police then, but I didn't. Uncle Ben and I had a fight that night, and I ran out of the house. I guess he felt bad and came out to find me, but... the crook found him first. Tried to rob him and...." He didn't finish.

"Ben, huh?" There wasn't anything else I could say.

"Benji's named after him."

"Yeah." I put my arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze before letting my hand drop. A sparrow landed on the ice and teetered around, looking confused. Then again, to me, sparrows always looked confused. Peter turned back to the path. 

"So, what do you need from me?"

"It's about my brother, and I need you to keep this quiet. Do you think you could come by my place later?"

"I've got a packed week. Would Friday be all right?"

"Sure. I'll give you my number." I took out my phone, and gave it to him on the spot via the tried and true "you call me" method. We continued past Belvedere Castle, and then I couldn't stand it anymore. I turned to him and burst out, "Bronx Science? You went to Bronx Science? You?"

Peter grinned. "Yeah. I used to be a nerd."

"What are you now?"

"Someone with bills."

I looked at him, saw the seriousness behind his smile. "I think you'd rather be a nerd."

He shrugged. "One thing I've learned, keep moving forward."

And here I was about to ask him to dredge up Mark's past. Well. It wasn't the first time I'd ignored someone's advice.

Wouldn't be the last.

#

I kept myself busy all day, making up chores, shopping online for nothing, trying not to look at my watch every other minute and looking anyway to see how long I'd gone without looking. I ironed all my shirts. Then I ironed my t-shirts. Then I ironed Ian's shirts. And every second, I looked at the clock. By three o'clock my apartment had the cleanest windows in the building. Ian called at 3:05. I asked if he wanted me to come get him, and he hung up on me. I nearly went mad waiting for him those final minutes, almost ran out to meet him halfway. By 3:30 I had gone down to the lobby and outside five times, but I turned around each time because I had promised him.

When Ian came in looking fresh as a sunbeam, I lifted him right off his feet. I wanted to tell him to never do it again, but the point of the day was that he could do it. The fact that I could not was a different issue.

The plan was this: I would care for Ian and he would remain my little boy. He had acted outside the plan and I had ignored it. We each played a different game on the same board. Not the checkerboard this time, but the board of our home, of our sidewalks and our park. Me, keeping him close to me, him moving forward and advancing past until I had to turn around to see him. 

I got him settled, and by 'him', I mean me. We sat down in the kitchen, like usual, and went over his homework while I made him a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich on wheat bread. 

"Thanks, Dad."

He won because he could adjust his strategy to include mine. I lost because I could not recognize that we were caught in a game. So, I had to let him take this step towards adulthood, literally, (appropriately?) without me. I could not ask for do-overs. Because it was not, after all, checkers. I slumped into the chair next to him. It was going to be a long week. And the next one—more of the same. Playing a game I could not hope to win if my only strategy was to keep my little boy just as he was.

#

By Friday I was still letting Ian walk home with Bobby, a fact that amazed both of us. He was doing OK, and once I forced myself to stop looking out the window or off the balcony to check the street every minute after 3:15, I was, too. I read the book about Mark a second time, looking for clues. I didn't come up with any new ideas beyond the one about tracking down the people who were in therapy with him. One in particular grabbed my interest. She claimed they were in love, and that he had been to visit her after he disappeared. She was given an alias in the book, but if I could just convince Steve to open up, I knew we could find her.

Steve was back home, and although he wasn't quite on board with my plan to bring Peter in, he hadn't told me I couldn't do it. I took this as having his blessing. Peter had connections. He could help. I wasn't sure why, but I trusted him more than I did Linney, who had written the book. Perhaps because Peter had not delved into my family history behind our backs. He was upfront with what he was. Had to respect him for that, didn't I?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in 1 night!! Just want to pause and thank everyone who is reading. :D :D :D

"Dude, you gotta come get your friend."

A man was shouting, wherever he was, it was noisy. I could hear cheering in the background and what might have been a television.

"My friend?" I shouted into the phone. Ian and Steve looked up. We were all squeezed onto Ian's bed listening to Steve read us, I mean _Ian_ "The Hobbit." I mouthed 'Sorry' at them. 

"Soon as you can, pal." He gave an address of a bar.

"What's my, uh, friend's name?"

"I don't—pal, hey pal, you got a name?—Peter, he says."

"Why are you calling me?"

"He said to. Look, it's gonna be you or the cops."

"I'll be right there." I hung up.

"What's going on?" Steve asked.

"It's Peter. He’s in some trouble at a bar. I'm going to get him."

"Tony, I'm sure he has a family."

"Yeah, but he called me." I left as quick as I got my shoes on. I knew what Steve was thinking—stick a drunk in front of me who needs help and that drunk has it made.

Except for one...

Except for one.

Peter was drunk past the point of standing when I met him.

"What's wrong?"

He shrugged. "Nothing. Everything's fine." And then he started to cry. The bartender came over to us.

"Look, man, you going to take your friend home or what?"

"He's not my—" Peter had slumped against my arm. I pulled him up. 

"Peter, where do you live?" No response. 

His eyes fluttered open. "Queens." And then he was out again. 

Shit. I dragged him out into the street and hailed a cab. Once we were inside, I called Steve. "Babe, I'm bringing Peter home with me. He's not in a very good condition, and I don't know where he lives."

"What if someone takes your picture?"

"Don't worry. The only one around with a camera is unconscious."

"I am not comforted."

"I'll be home in a minute."

"All right."

I had the cab pull into the underground lot, and I used my card to access the elevator from there so we could skip going through the lobby and seeing Joe, the night attendant. Steve heard us in the hallway and opened the door. 

"Steve, Peter, Peter, Steve."

"Delighted to finally meet you," Steve said without an ounce of sarcasm, even as his exasperated glance at me told a very different story.

Peter opted for a non-verbal response of hanging limply in my arms. 

I gave up trying to drag Peter and just picked him up. "I'm just going to take him upstairs."

"I'm having flashbacks of our wedding night," Steve said.

"You are just hilarious."

"You don't have to take care of everyone, Tony."

"I'm going to sit with him to make sure he doesn't choke on his vomit or anything. Is Ian asleep?"

"Yes."

"I'll make sure Peter's out before Ian wakes up."

"Make him breakfast first."

"All right."

"Do you want me to come sit with you?"

"No, you go to bed. You've got a big day tomorrow. I'll be fine."

"Tony, should I be concerned about you?"

"No. Not at all." I offered him my Television Smile. 

Peter woke up enough to lurch towards the bed when I got him into the guest room. I started to pull his shoes off, feeling suddenly paternal. He mumbled something, mouth full of pillow.

"Don't want you getting dirt on the sheets," I said. I pulled the covers over him. He watched, eyes half-closed, as I pulled a chair next to the bed.

"I don't need you to stay."

"I'm just here to make sure you don't drown in your own vomit. Haven't you ever watched over a drunk before?"

"She's taking him away."

"Who's taking who away?"

"My ex-wife. She's moving and taking Benji with her."

"Oh."

"She thinks I'm shit."

He began to weep again, huge sobs that caused him to push up from the bed in order to emit their full force upon him. He wiped his nose on the pillow. I cringed. It was five-hundred count thread.

"Tell me if you're going to throw up." He collapsed. I got up and turned the light out. "Go to sleep. I'll be here." It was what I used to say to Mark, and when I started speaking, I had not expected to say it.

"Nicest fucking guy in the world," Peter mumbled.

"So I've read."

"She can't take my boy away. I'll stop her. Get a lawyer." He was someplace else, not talking to me. He ended with an uneasy snore. I listened to him sleep and resisted the urge to pull the covers up again.

#

Steve shook me. "Hey. Are you coming to bed?"

“He might throw up and drown."

"Oh. Well then." Steve grabbed an armchair and scooted it next to mine. Then he sat down and spread a blanket across his lap.

"You don't have to stay."

"Remember when we sat up all night with Ian?"

"Yeah." I scooted over in my chair so I could lean against his shoulder. 

"This will be just like that, only completely different. I'm nearly done packing."

"Packing?"

"Tony."

"What?'

"You didn't forget?"

"What?"

"Tony."

"What?"

Disbelief mapped his face.

"Oh. No. Of course I didn't forget. Our vacation starts tomorrow."

"Right."

I didn't forget. No. Not at all. And hopefully I could keep Steve convinced of that while I packed in the ten minutes it would take him in the shower in the morning.

#

In the morning, I packed (Steve noticed), made waffles, and explained to Peter what I needed him to do. He sat at the breakfast table, freshly showered, wearing my clothes, with dueling expressions of embarrassment and intrigue crossing his face.

He thumbed through Desmond Linney's book. "You want me to find this former client of Steve's?" I'd marked the page. Ian's practicing provided the background music to our conversation. This morning, he was attempting Haydn. The same four measures repeated over and over before he moved on to the next four. 

"Yes." Before I could continue, Steve walked in. Peter half rose from his seat.

"Dr. Rogers—I'm Peter Parker."

Steve shook his proffered hand. "Yes, we met last night."

"I don't remember." Peter sat back down.

"I'm not surprised. You know, I do have a bit of experience in substance abuse counseling, if you're interested."

"That was not a normal occurrence for me, I promise you."

"Well, the offer stands." Steve set the coffee pot on the table. "I'm pretty sure she's using an alias." He pointed to the book. "I don't remember anyone by that name."

I couldn't help my surprised smile. "I thought you didn't want anything to do with this."

"I know how much this means to you."

I walked around the table and gave him a kiss. Ian came in just in time to catch it and made the obligatory gagging noises. He slid into his seat. I put a waffle on his plate and filled his glass with orange juice. 

"Hi Peter," Ian said.

Steve and I both turned to stare at him. My mouth fell open. Our son had said hello to someone without prompting. 

"He's Benji's dad." Ian looked at us like we were nuts for looking at him that way and swiped the syrup.

"I think you're overestimating me," Peter said. He didn't seem aware of the cataclysmic event that had just taken place. He tasted a bite of waffle. "This is delicious."

I ignored the compliment. "You can't tell me this is something someone like you could turn down."

"Someone like me?"

"Yes." I left the answer there, let him interpret it however he liked. Even though I liked and respected Peter, I needed him to fill in his own blanks in whatever way would make him define himself as the kind of person I needed him to be right now. I just hoped he'd make the connection I had between his bright, untapped Bronx Science mind and the cutthroat focus a person needed to be a successful celebrity stalker. Put those things together, and he'd be unstoppable. Just who I needed on my side. 

Peter shoveled another syrup-drenched bite into his mouth. "Well, when you're right, you're right."

"I called the car. It'll be here in thirty minutes," Steve said.

"Are you going somewhere?" Peter asked.

"California. I'm doing a few talk shows to promote ‘Metal Man’ special edition on DVD and Steve has a lecture or two to give. So, sorry to drop this book on you and run, but—"

"No, it's fine." Peter seemed to be racing to finish his waffle now. He grabbed his glass of juice and drained it. "I'll get out of your way."

"You'll call me if you find out anything, won't you?" I asked. "And we haven't talked about payment, but any expenses that come up, I'll cover those. And, if you need a per diem, or... I'm not sure how this works."

Peter set the glass down. "I will call you if I find anything. I will keep my receipts. I would appreciate a per diem. If you want me to focus on this instead of my usual job, then I would especially appreciate one. Anything else, we'll deal with when it comes."

Steve looked uncomfortable. I prayed he wasn't having second thoughts. He flapped his hand at Peter, like he wanted to set it down on Peter's shoulder and decided against it. "Peter, we only want you to—we don't want you to disturb anyone. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Don't worry. I'm pretty good at not being noticed."

I snorted. Peter smiled at his syrupy plate. 

"Most of the time."


	10. Chapter 10

"I can't believe we're actually doing this," Steve said. It was the third hour of our drive to his father's and this was the hundredth time he had expressed his shock at the two of us going on vacation together.

"Ian, you're sure you'll be okay at Grandpa's?" I asked, for the hundredth and first time. Ian was staring out the window with his headphones on. The first time I asked, he had said 'yes', and had not answered since.

When we pulled into the drive, Ian became more alert as the car trundled along the gravel. An ancient tractor stood in the middle of the yard, now turned into a garden centerpiece. Despite the robust flowers growing around and on it, it looked dusty and forgotten. The garage door was open, giving view to Joseph's battered pickup truck. Two dogs laying on the back porch didn't raise their heads when I parked five yards from them. There was no sign of Steve's dad. "The house looks dead," Ian said. 

I glanced up at the dangling green shutter on the second floor that hadn't been fixed since our last visit. "It has been for years," I said. Steve cast a look at me, but Ian hadn't heard.

"Where's Grandpa?"

"He'll be in the shed," Steve said. My turn to look at him. Our eyes met, and we shared a moment of "we're doing this for the kid" telepathy. Ian hopped out and ran for the shed. It was a lonely building behind the house, big enough to house a few of Joseph's antique tractors and a worktable where he did carpentry projects. Steve grabbed my elbow. 

"Will you try to get along with him, please? We're only here a little while."

"I will if you will."

Joseph came out with his welding gloves on. A big smile and a hug for Steve, and then me, which was over as soon as he touched me. 

"How are you, Steven? Glad you could make it."

"Hey, Dad."

"Thanks for keeping Ian," I said. 

Joseph pulled his gloves off and handed them to Ian, who started trying them on. "Glad to have the little guy to myself, for once."

"What do you mean?" Ian asked.

"Ian, we talked about staying with Grandpa," I said. "Several times."

"Yeah?"

"Papa and I are going to California to do some work and you're going to have some time with Grandpa."

"You don't work."

"Well, this week I have to."

"Why can't I go?"

"Because Papa is giving lectures, and we don't have anyone to take care of you." From the corner of my eye, I noted Joseph standing there, _judging_ me.

"You don't work," he repeated. "You're only not staying here because you think Grandpa doesn't like you."

"Ian, that is not why—"

"Tony—" Joseph said.

"It's not fair." Ian threw the welding gloves down. And then he started doing routes. I stared at Joseph, waiting for him to make a comment about my child. He however, was staring at me.

"You think I don't like you?" Joseph appeared incredulous.

"Joseph, could we not—"

"No, let's—" Damned old man never backed down from a challenge--unless it was supporting his own family. He'd abandoned Steve when he was six years old. Steve was a better man than I'd ever be for forgiving him.

"Not now." I picked Ian up. It was like lifting a stone. "We'll be inside." Ian's mumbling filled my ear. I carried him into the house, into the guest room and sat down on the bed shared. I pulled him onto my lap and held him. He was too big, but we made do. I waited until he got the N train all the way to Coney Island. "Papa and I are taking a grown-up vacation. We're going to do a lot of kissing."

"Ew," Ian said.

"You could come along, but we're going to be so busy kissing you'd have to do everything by yourself."

"Dad."

"Make your own food, go swimming alone, put yourself to bed..."

"Very funny." He squirmed off my lap.

"Or, you could stay here and let Grandpa do all that for you."

Ian looked like he was still stricken from hearing about the kissing. The stairs creaked and Steve and Joseph appeared at the door. Steve came over and bent over us. He stroked Ian's hair.

Steve turned to Joseph. "Is this where you tell me I'm a bad father?"

Joseph came in and sat down in a rocking chair that I didn't remember being there before. "You aren't a bad father."

"Right."

"You used to do that, too."

Steve frowned. "What?"

"That mumbling. Whenever things got too much for you. Freaked your mother out no end. She wanted to send you to a bunch of specialists, but we couldn't afford it. I used to wrap you in a blanket and we'd sit in the rocking chair, this one, in fact, until you got over whatever was bothering you. I think you were about five when you stopped."

"I'm surprised you remember that."

"I remember a lot of things you'd be surprised at."

"Don't try to act like you were a good person back then." 

"That wasn't what I was saying."

"Right."

"Steve, I'm sorry I've let you down. He came over to the bed and gently untangled Ian from me. "Ian, if you want to go with your parents, I understand. But we always have a good time together, don't we? So, I hope you'll stay because I've got a lot of fun things planned." 

Gradually, Ian started paying attention to Joseph as he listed all the things they would do that week. Nature walks and tractor rides and riding the four-wheeler around the yard and playing with the dogs. "Well, maybe I could stay," Ian said.

Steve gestured Ian forward. "Ian, go get your suitcase out of the car." He left, and we soon heard him running down the stairs.

I started to get up, too, but Joseph stopped me. "Now you. Now look, I don't know what put it into your head that I don't like you, but I want you to put that right out. Understand?"

"What was it? I don't know—maybe the fact that you didn't speak to me for months after Steve and got married. Would you even talk to me now if we hadn't called you ten years ago and told you about your grandson?"

"Well, I was right here, wasn't I?" Joseph asked, like it was our fault we hadn't loaded up the car and come to the place he'd fucked off to after he'd abandoned Steve and his mother. Steve made a growling sound.

He sat down next to me and put his arm around me. "Dad, I'm trying to have a relationship with you now for Ian's sake. But if you think I'm not furious at you for what you did.... You're a long way from making amends. You knew something was wrong, and you wouldn't face it. Mom's sick and you're God-knows-where—drinking. And after she died, I was there, alone. I'll tell you, Dad, if I come back here and find out you've left Ian alone even once, I will do what I've wanted to do for years. I will throw a match on that fucking shed and watch it burn to the ground." The more Steve talked, the tighter his grip on my shoulder became. 

Joseph stared at him for a moment, sizing up his response. "I don't drink anymore," he said finally. "Everything will be fine."

Steve managed a smile. "Good." His grip eased. I patted his leg. We could do this.

#

The hotel room had brown carpeting and an overwhelming scent of clean, such as the kind only encountered in hotels, the unmistakable mixture of too much air conditioning and Lysol. I lay next to Steve on the queen-sized bed with a brown quilt trimmed in pink roses. He was reading through a stack of letters that his assistant Julie had delivered. Our suitcase was on the wooden dresser, which was also brown. I picked up the remote control and showed Steve that it was attached to the bedside table with a plastic-encased steel cable.

"I don't think I've ever stayed in a hotel where the amenities were tied down."

"You're thinking you should apologize for all those cracks you make about me being a snob, aren't you?"

"You couldn't have told Julie to arrange something a little nicer? Considering we're on vacation?"

"The school's footing the bill. They arranged the hotel." Earlier, Steve had spoken at UCLA.

"We could have paid."

Steve moved on to the next letter. "Could we?"

"Yes. I don't know if you've heard this, or not, but I am married to a very wealthy man. A national icon, even."

"Hmm." As he finished each letter, he placed it next to him. I started to pick one up, and he smacked my hand.

"Oh come on. Just let me read one."

"They are all the same."

"Everyone is complaining about the same thing?"

"No, every letter is equally off limits to you."

"You are no fun at all."

I had done "Ellen" in the morning. It was fine, except for a moment when I thought I saw Mark in the audience and Ellen had to repeat her question. Later on we played a game with the audience, and I got close enough to have a look at the guy. Wasn't Mark. I won a prize for him anyway. I couldn't remember if I'd ever won anything for Mark, or if I'd even tried at any of the fairs we had gone to as kids. Afterwards, I got to the college in time to catch the end of Steve's lecture. I would have seen more of it, except the security desk was staffed by someone who didn't know who I was. I had to wait for Julie to come get me and escort me into the back of the room. A student was in the middle of asking a question about her alcoholic sister. 

Steve responded, "Well, I'm pretty sure you guys don't like me well enough to sit through my lecture again… I covered all the prevalent points of my 1994 published study on the topic—causes for one sibling to become an abuser and not the other: differences in age, in parental attention, one parent versus two parent homes, victims of abuse, bullyism." Steve had the grace to not point to me, who, along with my brother, had been the subjects of that study. 

The girl stood, waiting for her own answer. Steve leaned forward with both hands on the podium. “I don’t know your situation. It could be like one that I’ve described today. But maybe it’s not. I can’t tell you why. I can tell you a whole lot of reasons, but ultimately, your sister will be the only one who can fill you in on her reason. And when you don’t have a reason for something, remember this: Shit happens. To all of us. You’re not the only one. Keep your head on your shoulders. You’ll get through.” When he visited colleges, he went as himself. He saved Captain America for conventions and the television. Not that Cap wasn't authentic, but on the college tours, he gave them the real Steve. 

A wave of rumbling crossed over the crowd like a beast in the morning, and then people began to applaud. They were learning the one constant about Steve. He believed that honesty was all there was. He believed everyone could benefit from it. 

"Thank you all for coming." He stepped off the stage. I started working my way through the crowd to get to the front. A few people stopped me for autographs. When I got to Steve, he was signing a few of his own. I kissed his cheek and a round of “aww’s” went up.

"Shut up, all of you," I said, and the aww’s turned into laughter.

The girl with the question was there. 

“I’m sorry if I seemed harsh,” Steve said.

“No.” She shook her head and briefly touched his forearm with two fingers. “It was exactly what I wanted to hear. Thank you.”

I watched her as she walked away. And then someone pushed a piece of paper and a pen and asked if I would mind, and I said I wouldn't at all.

Steve had a stack of letters waiting in every city and town he went to. Always, he greeted the hotel clerk—concierge in bigger cities, hall attendant when he lodged in a dorm, as often happened—with “Hello, I’m Steve Rogers,” and always they greeted him with a smile, a key, and a handful of mail. When he stayed in dorms, it was more than a handful. 

He finished reading the letters and folded them back up. 

"I'm going for a shower. Don't touch these, alright?"

"Yes."

As soon as I heard the water, I started reading.

They started like this:

“Dear Dr. Rogers, your show means so much to me.” Or, “My friend saw you on TV.” Or, “I saw you speak last year.”

Then came the introduction:

“My name is Rich. Susan. Daniel. Joaquin. Liz.”

I could hear their voices, every one of them, calling from the page.

“I am 14. 19. 18. 22. 39. I need your help….” 

As I read, I started to understand why he didn't want me to read them. It had nothing to do with the contents of the letters. It had to do with Steve. He didn't want me to know certain things. Like what he knew about human nature—the things parents will do to children—things he had not told me. He was forbidden to do so by his oath of confidentiality, but I knew that even if he weren't, he still would not repeat the things he knew. He was protecting me.

“My dad beats me. I hate myself. My uncle raped me. My brother is killing himself.” 

The letters end like this:

“Do you think I could talk to you this weekend? I know you are very busy, but I don’t have anyone to turn to. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.”

I folded the letters and put them back. I tried to forget them, and then found that I did not want to. They were a part of him, and I wanted them to be a part of me, too.

#

Three days into our working vacation, Peter called. I was jogging along the ocean boardwalk. Seagulls, sand, ocean lapping the beach. My phone playing Toni Braxton. "Hello?"

"It's your friendly neighborhood investigative reporter."

"Peter."

"Right on. I think I've found the person you're looking for."

"Are you sure?" I stopped jogging and moved off the boardwalk.

"I believe so, yeah. Her name's Sofia. I don't think she knew this guy was writing a book. I think he pulled one over on her."

"Did you speak to her?"

"Just enough to figure out if she was worth talking to more. She definitely knew Mark. I didn't do anything that would upset Steve."

"Thank you." I noticed a few people looking at me and pulled my cap down. 

"Got her information for you, though, in case you guys want to follow up. She lives in California."

"Really?" I wondered how much effort it would take to convince Steve to take a sidetrip.

"I have to say, I've enjoyed playing investigative journalist. Don't get to do it too often."

"Perhaps this is the start of a new career for you."

"I wouldn't go that far. You'll tell me if anything comes of this, right?" Peter asked.

"If she tells me where Mark is, I'll invite you along for the big reunion."

"For an actor, you are the worst liar I have ever known."

"Maybe that's why I quit."

He texted me the address, and I continued my run. Now I just had to kill time until Steve was back.

#

Sofia Lopez lived in surfing community nestled in the outcropping of a cliff. Her trailer sat on the sand among fifteen or so others, painted bright blue with Christmas lights strung sporadically along the outside. Their cord disappeared through a window that was opened at the top. On approach, the lights looked cheerful, but a closer look revealed peeling paint. A surfboard leaned against the trailer.

"Sofia?" Steve knocked on the door. It opened slightly. I always told him he had a fist like a sledgehammer. He carefully closed the door and knocked again, lighter. I hovered, thinking that I shouldn't let Steve go in first. This was the kind of place where people disappeared. I stood ready to pull him back. The door opened, though, and a woman with dark hair down to her shoulders stood in front of us. She was holding a baby.

"Dr. Rogers? It's so good to see you again." 

"Hi Sofia. We're sorry to come on such short notice. This is my husband Tony."

Sofia nodded at me and did not extend her hand. Stuck behind Steve, I could not offer mine.

"May we come in?" Steve asked.

Sofia looked around, as if seeking an excuse to deny what she'd agreed to on the phone. A conversation, brief. 

"We'll only stay a minute," I said.

"I'm sorry the place is such a mess." She stepped aside to let us come in. I entered onto a stained carpet. Living room, kitchen, and dinette occuppied the same area. Crusted dishes piled in the sink. The baby looked a few months old. I wondered if she had anyone to help her. "It's probably pretty bad compared to what you're used to," she continued. 

"I grew up in a tenement apartment in Brooklyn," Steve said. "Our toilet was outside the apartment and down the hall. Had to walk past a broken window to get to it. When the weather got below freezing, I just didn't pee."

She smiled. "This place isn't that bad."

I wisely kept my mouth shut. Probably talking about how I'd "roughed it" in the desert filming "Metal Man" while I'd earned $20 million would be a bad move. 

I grinned and made myself comfortable on the couch. I pulled a baby toy out of the cushion.

"You have a beautiful baby," Steve said. "May I hold her?"

"Her name is Samantha." Sofia passed the baby to Steve. For a minute, we all sat and watched the infant settle into Steve's arms. 

"So, what can I do for you? Are you just checking up on your old patients, or…" 

That was my cue. "Well, it's about—I'd like to ask you about my brother, Mark. You were in group therapy with him. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"Did a man come to talk to you about him? A man who was writing a book?"

"Yes."

I cut to the chase. "I've read the book. Did you tell him the truth about seeing Mark?"

She looked away. I followed her eyes to a new stroller parked near the door.

"Sofia?"

"I can't afford a babysitter or the things she needs. He offered me money if I would talk."

"So you told him…"

"I told him the truth. But it felt like it wasn't enough."

"So you expanded?" My heart hammered. I braced myself on the back of the couch behind Steve. He'd put the baby to sleep in his arms. I'd known it was too good to be true, known there would be a catch, but I still felt like I was plummetting back to the ground. 

"Yes," Sofia said. She'd stopped looking at me.

I forced myself to ask. "What part did you expand?"

"The end."

"Where you say you saw Mark after his disappearance." My voice had lost all tone. I stared down at a tear in the couch's upholstery. 

Sofia retrieved the baby from Steve. "It wasn't a lie. I didn't mean for him to take it literally." She put Samantha down carefully in a bassinet. 

"You didn't?" I asked.

"I didn't tell him to. That was all him."

"So you have not seen Mark anyplace but in your own head since he disappeared?" We had that much in common. 

She met my eyes again, a quiet, fantastic desperation in her gaze. "He loved me. That's how I know he's dead. If he wasn't, he'd have contacted me."

"Mark was pretty flighty about relationships. Are you sure about that?" I didn't mean to sound so forceful, but this was the tone I took when I was trying not to break. 

Raising her chin, standing up to me, she replied, "Yes."

There wasn't much to do then but leave. I opted to smooth things over. We were persons-in-arms now, people Mark had destroyed. "Sofia, don't feel bad. I might have done the same thing in your situation."

"I'm sorry to have dashed your hopes. I didn't think anyone would know."

"It's funny how things get around."

"Tony, we should go." Steve said. "Thank you so much for talking to us."

"Yeah. Here, can I give you—" I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out a crumpled hundred dollar bill. "For your trouble."

She took it and kissed me on the cheek. "For yours."

I looked at her. Steve guided me out of the apartment, and, as the door closed, I felt like crying. We were halfway to our rented car when I stopped.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"We should have done her dishes. And we could have watched the baby while she took a nap."

"Do you want to go back?"

I dug my feet into the sand. I wanted Steve to make the decision. He stood in front of me, so I leaned forward until my head touched his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me.

"Tony?"

"You," I whispered. Behind my closed eyelids, my eyes felt hot with waiting tears. If I opened them, they would fall. "Maybe I should accept he's dead."

"I think it would be okay if you did."

I opened my eyes. "We've never found a body."

"Tony, it's okay for you to keep hoping. That's what faith is, after all."

I rubbed my eyes and looked back where we'd come. "Steve." 

Steve understood what I needed, took my hand, and together we went back.


	11. Chapter 11

After we left Sofia's for the second time, Steve forced me out for dinner and watched as I sullenly chewed a hamburger that under normal circumstances I would have found perfect.

“What are you thinking?”

"I'm thinking about going back to work," I said. "I want to be busy again. Really busy."

"It could be good for you to put your head someplace else."

"I'll clear it with Ian first."

"Of course." Steve daintily dressed his salad. He had a talent for making the dressing pour out in thin lines, whereas I was more of an accidental dumper. 

I added, "Not that I'd do anything that would interfere with his schedule."

"I was thinking about cutting back on my lecturing, too and working on a new book that builds on what I'm doing as Captain America."

He mentioned this plan from time to time, but so far it had never come to fruition. "When?"

"My last scheduled engagement is in six months. I have paid attention when you've suggested I should spend more time at home."

I put the burger down. "I think it's time to move on, don't you? I can't spend my whole life wondering about Mark, can I?"

"I will support whatever you decide to do."

"It's just, I've been getting my hopes up. I thought… never mind." I stuffed a fry in my mouth.

"I know. I'm sorry it didn't work out how we wanted."

"I think it's time I did something else. Stopped this nonsense."

"Tony, it's not nonsense."

"Ian's growing up. It's time I made some changes, too. I need to start learning to let go.” I plastered a smile on my face and said what I couldn't say on the beach. “I'm ready, Steve."

#

With our obligations over, Steve and I spent the remaining days of our vacation at a spa resort in northern California. By the time we returned to pick up Ian, I was at peace with my decision to move forward with my life. Steve still had the issue of his behavior toward his father, though. I wasn’t surprised when Joseph approached us.

"Tony, do you mind if I talk to Steve for a minute?"

"Stay," Steve said.

"It's all right. I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about." I was ready to leave, but Steve gave me an imploring look, so I sat down. We'd sent Ian to his room to pack. I hoped he was out of earshot for the yelling I anticipated.

"Well, Dad?" Steve asked. 

"I've been thinking about what you said. Thought maybe we weren't quite done talking," Joseph said.

In my experience, those were words that preceded a beating. I got ready to move between them. The room had several items that could be thrown. Joseph collected brass animals. They'd do damage. Steve took a step backward, but it was more like resetting his stance than retreating, and the movement seemed to reset the air in the room. "Dad, I'm sorry. I said some things I shouldn't have, so let's just forget—"

"You were right."

He paused. "What?"

"I wasn't there for you. I laid everything on you and expected you to take over when your mother got sick. That was wrong."

I stared at him, tearing my thoughts away from imagining the brass eagle sitting on the coffee table flying through the air. Steve appeared stunned as well. 

"Dad…"

"No. Look. Apologies are best done face to face, so I want to tell you I am sorry. I've always thought of myself as a good man—" He rubbed the white stubble on his cheek, evidently as uncomfortable as we were.

Steve cast a desparate glance in my direction. All I could do was shrug with confusion. Joseph Rogers never apologized for anything. And yet here he was.

"—And to think that where I've failed is in raising my child… I am deeply shamed. Your mother and I, we wanted what was best for you kids. But I wasn't strong enough. I fell into the bottle. You're like her, Steve. And I'm thankful for that."

"Dad, you're not dying, are you?"

"No. I am not. Can't a man make an honest apology without people thinking he's checking out?"

"Just making sure."

"I know I can't undo what's been done or give you your childhood back, but I can tell you, from my heart, that I heard you last week, and I am sorry. Here, I want to show you something." He pulled something out of his pocket and gave it to Steve. It was a piece of cut wood that appeared to be in some type of shape.

Steve turned it over a few times before giving up. "What's this?"

"It's a car. Ian made it."

Steve examined the block again. "Oh. Yeah, I see it now." 

Joseph smiled. "We spent some time in the shed together. He made this and a few other things."

"You let him use the machines?" I interrupted.

"He's more careful than most adults," Joseph said.

Steve put the car in his pocket. "Dad, what I said about the shed…"

"It's all right."

"I was going to say that I meant it."

"Oh."

Steve relented. "But I'm glad that you let Ian spend some time with you in there."

"I was only ever in there with him. We had so much quality time together, I'm sure he won't want to see his grandpa for a year."

Now they smiled at each other like people who got along. "Well, I hope not that long. He's got a birthday coming up. I think we're going to hit the road. Try to get home before it gets dark."

"I sure have enjoyed having him. It's not too late for a man to change, is it?"

"I guess we'll find out."

"Practical. That's from your mother, too."

#

"I passed spelling," Ian said. "And it's my birthday next week."

"Well, I guess we know what that means. Extra broccoli for you tonight." I plopped an extra helping onto his plate. 

He gave me an exasperated look. In times of importance, Ian had no time for my finely-honed jokes. "Dad."

"'A' train?"

"'A' train."

The A was the longest subway route in New York City. It stretched from 207th street in Manhattan to the Rockaways. A ride going one way took well over two hours. And, it was Ian's idea of a treat. 

The next day,we started at the Brooklyn end because it was faster to get home from the Manhattan end. First, provisions were packed: water, peanut butter and banana sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and dollar bills for performers who passed through our car. Then, we took a taxi to Far Rockaway. On the platform, we waited where the first car stopped. It had to be one that let you look out the front. If one arrived and it had the front part sectioned off for the driver, we would wait. Ian's thrill came from planting himself in front of the small window as the train hurtled, first over cars and people outdoors and then descending through the dark tunnel with nothing but the track and a single light to guide it. I got a bit of a thrill from it, too. 

When he was younger, I would stand behind him and brace myself between the conductor's door and the bar over the double seats opposite while Ian gripped my slacks at the knees. Now, he still wasn't tall enough to grab the bar, but he could set his feet well enough that he didn't need me anymore. I stood near him anyway, just in case. From time to time, he would turn, beaming, and face the window again. Riding in the front, you start to feel like anything could be exciting if it's looked at from the right angle. I turned around to look at all the people behind us, all quiet and stuck in themselves and wondered if the ride would become more than ordinary for them if they saw it like this. I felt Ian grab my hand. I whipped back around to see what had happened. Nothing. He was still looking out the window, still happy. I pulled him against my chest and crossed my arms over him. He vibrated at the same rate as the train. 

"You doing all right walking home with Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"How do you like your phone?"

"Fine."

"You haven't been calling a bunch of girls on it, have you?"

"Dad."

"I'm just bracing myself for the phone bill."

"I haven't been calling girls."

"Well, that's all right then. Are you having a good time?"

"Yes."

He had grown another inch in the past month. Another three months and he would be up to my shoulder. I pressed his hair down. "Think we should tie a brick to your head?"

"What?" He looked up.

"It's just something my mom used to say when she thought I was growing too fast."

"Oh." He looked as if he thought it was a stupid idea, and if my mother thought it worked, she was an idiot.

"It's just a saying. It doesn't mean anything."

"I already know you love me, so you don't have to say stuff like that."

"I'll try not to."

"But it's okay if you do."

The way he looked at me and smiled made it all the harder to say what I knew I had to. I knew I couldn't put it off any longer. "Buddy—what would you think if I went back to work?"

He turned around full force to face this question, hands on hips, rocking with the train but perfectly balanced. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing big. Maybe a cameo somewhere, to see how it goes. And I'd still be home when you were."

"I think it would be okay."

"Yeah?"

"Lots of people work, Dad."

"I know. And I'll still be around for you, whenever you need me. Papa thinks it's a good idea, but I wanted to run it by you first."

"Yeah, I think it's a good idea."

"Okay. I'll tell Bucky. He'll be over the moon."

He grinned and spun around, trusting that I would catch him when he landed against me. I did.

#

We ate cereal for supper, a secret treat for both of us. After putting the bowls and spoons in the dishwasher, Ian got the styrofoam-arrow-shooting guns out of the playroom, and we had a war that encompassed the entire apartment. We both died and came back to life over and over until he declared himself the ultimate victor. I sent him upstairs for his bath.

I checked my e-mail. Bucky had already forwarded six scripts. I looked at the ones he'd starred first. By eleven, I was absorbed in a western. I almost didn't hear the phone when the intercom buzzed. Prying myself from my computer screen, I answered it.

“Yeah?”

"Mr. Baker. Your brother is here." Scott's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Scott, tell whoever it is that I'm not interested."

Someone else took the phone at the desk. "Tones? It's me."

And it was. Three words and I knew. The phone slipped out of my hand and hit the wall. I slid down beside it. 

"Mr. Baker? What do you want me to do?" Scott asked.

I let the receiver swing next to my mouth. "Yes. Send him up." 

The intercom went dead. Unlike the other occasions when I'd run around cleaning and tidying in preparation, I walked to the door, stood a few feet back, and stared it. For the first time, I realized that in those past instances, I hadn't been preparing the apartment for Mark, I'd been distracting myself from disappointment.

The elevator opened. I couldn't hear him walking down the hall, but I counted the seconds anyway. I reached ten seconds. Twenty. Even though I heard nothing, I sensed it. Mark was on the other side of the door. I reached out but stopped short of touching it. I didn't look through the spyhole. I _believed_.


	12. Chapter 12

When the knock came, it was three sharp, no nonsense raps. It wasn't Mark's knock. But, I turned the knob and flung the door open. In that instant, I stopped breathing. 

“Mark.” 

Despite my confidence that this time he'd be real, I couldn't keep the shock out of my voice. He was here. He was real. Guessed I should have expected that, since I'd recognized his voice a minute before. The shock for me was that he looked like himself. His hair was a touch longer than I remembered. We both looked like we hadn't seen a razor in three days. I carried off my scruff with the air of someone who’s just stepped away from a photo shoot, while he looked greasy. I had expected something… else. Bigger. Grander. Something with a better excuse. A duffel bag that had seen better decades slumped at his feet.

_Stop judging._ It was stupid to want to feel more when the truth of having him here should have been big enough. Only a few seconds had passed, but it felt like minutes. Mark was legend in my mind, growing every day that he was gone until I turned him into someone who could look into my head and solve everything—not make the last fifteen years so they didn't happen, but fix them so they happened differently, so people didn't die, or run off, or get sick, or figure out that where some people reach inside themselves during tragedy and find their inner heroes, others look to that same place and are stifled by fear. It was a stupid, stupid thought. I was the older brother. He used to look to me to do those things. I had no right to expect it from him. This… guy… with his embarrassed smile staring at me couldn't undo any of that, and yet I wanted to throw myself at him and weep, partly from disappointment, and partly from a tiny belief that maybe, just maybe, he could fix me if I gave him enough time. 

He hadn't said anything. I hadn't given him the chance to speak. Here I was mentally piling my baggage on him, and he hadn't uttered a word. 

“Miss me?” he asked. It was flip, not like I wanted at all. So, rather than throw himself at me, he was going the obnoxious route. How… Mark. 

Though I didn't say it, my expression broadcasted 'Fucking Moron'. How... me. I could see he took heart. At least we still understood each other.

"Come inside." I turned sideways to make room for him. He stepped past me and I closed the door. Mark entered a few steps and looked at the staircase with its gleaming banister, leading to the balcony above where the guestroom and the playroom were. I wondered where he'd been, if he'd had the living space that I did. When he turned around, I was still against the door, staring at him.

"You want me to pinch you?"

I broke out of my daze. “We thought you were dead.” 

“Disappointed?” He made a distasteful expression. Probably hadn't meant to say that, either. It got my ire up anyway. I wanted to know why he was here.

I wanted to know why I hadn't hugged him yet. “Don’t be stupid. Are you cold? You look…”

“Cold?”

“Small,” I said. 

When he left, he was the little brother in every sense. The years had evened us out. Now I guessed a ten pound difference between us. I could feel that need to care for him returning, though, because he was once fragile and little, and I was older and it was my job. 

“You got anything to drink?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, come on into the kitchen. Leave your bag here.”

I went ahead of him. I moved with care, as if something had beaten me down and I was bracing for it to come back and finish me off. At the last second before I pushed through the door I looked over my shoulder. 

I still loved him. No matter how we were acting toward each other, how we danced and avoided, I couldn't hide--didn't want to--that I adored him with every fiber of my being, and all I wanted was for him to stay.

Ian sat at the kitchen table, swinging his feet against the floor. He wore his "old man" pajamas, as Steve called them. Button up with a collar. Solid red with blue piping. . His wet hair dripped on his shirt. He had a glass in front of him and a milk mustache on his lip. When he looked at me, his eyes were flat, his gaze disinterested.

“Ian, this is your Uncle Mark,” I leaned over and pointed.

"The real one?"

"Yes."

“Hi, Ian. How old are you?” New fact about Mark #1: He was useless with kids. Ian gave him a long look and a longer silence. 

“Buddy, tell Mark you’re eleven.” 

Ian slid out of his seat and left. 

“Sorry about that,” I said. 

“It’s okay.”

“He’s not too good with strangers. He’s smart, though. He’s… he’s amazing.” The shine in my voice, like I was begging Mark to love my son too; maybe it was too much.

"What did he mean, 'the real one'?"

"You're not the first Mark he's met."

"You're kidding." He started laughing. 

"What?"

"I don't know. I just—I had no idea."

I was torn between smiling and crying.The decision was too great, so I turned away from it and put my back to my brother.

_Celebrity Spy_ was open at Ian's place. Mark slid into Ian’s seat and picked it up. That picture of me and Ian at the zoo appeared again. 

I took the magazine away and handed him a glass of water. "Don't tell me you read that crap."

"You're the one who has it in his house."

I slumped into a chair and ran my finger over the lip of Ian’s glass. Mark drank his water and didn’t look at me. 

"Bucky tipped a guy off to follow us," I offered to break the silence.

A spark of interest from Mark. I hated how careful we were being with each other. "He's still your agent?"

"He thinks so."

"But you still see him. How is he?"

"Yes, I still see him. He hasn't changed any. Still annoying as hell. He's Natasha's husband."

"Natasha's too young to be married." Said with the flip confidence of a man who's fucked off and assumed the people he left behind didn't age. 

"Tell that to her."

"So what's wrong with being in a magazine once in a while? Do you know what some people would do for that?" He grabbed the magazine again.

I stopped tracing Ian's glass. “You know I’m not one of them, Mark."

"I don't know anything about you, Tones."

"I just want to raise my boy without anyone looking in on us. It’s hard enough, raising a normal….” My voice caught. I never let myself think that Ian was not normal. That he was more difficult than other children. “It’s hard raising a child when everyone is scrutinizing you,” I amended after a moment. "You should call Bucky and tell him you're back."

Mark pretended he didn't hear. “Ironic, isn’t it? Steve being a psychiatrist and you guys having a kid you can’t fix.” 

“He is how he is,” I said, but there was no emotion behind it. I was too worn to lie. I was always there for Mark when we were young. I wondered if Mark had allowed himself to think of this, perhaps at night, perhaps when he was alone and he was not enough. Had he allowed himself to remember that he had needed me? I wanted to grab onto him so badly and hold him, like I used to. He looked at me, but I could not read him. A skill I never thought I would lose. Perhaps a skill I never had. 

"You know, when I imagined this, seeing you again, I don't know—I pictured us falling back into our easy banter."

I stared at him. "We never had an easy banter, Mark. You left just when you were figuring out how to hold a conversation."

"Okay, maybe not banter, but definitely fewer lulls in the conversation."

From the incredulous expression on my face, he got the idea of it. 'Fucking moron' all over again.

"Is Steve here?" 

"He's filming. He'll be back late tonight." 

"I catch his show sometimes. It's pretty cool what he's doing." 

"He'll be glad to hear that."

"So things are pretty good for you?" 

“Mark. Go call Bucky."

"I'm happy for you, you know. All of it. This whole, this whole thing." His gesture took in the surroundings, the view, fantastic even from the kitchen. I squinted into the bottom of Ian's glass like I would find a response there. I had never cared about possessions. When we were children, I gave him the best of all I had. 

"You can use the phone in the library.” I pointed toward a doorway behind us, catty-cornered from the one we came in through.

“I haven’t decided if I’m staying. I don’t want him to get his hopes up.”

“Mark, aside from me, Bucky is the only one of us who still thinks you’re alive. His hopes have always been up.”

“All right, I'll call him.” 

Mark was at the door when I said, “Was it because of me?”

“What?” He knew what.

“Nothing.” 

Mark waited to see if I would say it, but I got up and threw the magazine into a garbage can... again. I started rearranging the dishes already in the dishwasher so that I wouldn't have to turn around until he was gone, and Mark left me alone.

#

When Mark walked back through the kitchen into the living room, I was zipping his bag. "You putting something in or taking something out?"

"I'm sorry. I should have asked first. I just had to be sure." I tossed the bag at him. Mark caught it and dropped it onto the couch. 

"Sure of what?"

"I don't want you bringing anything into the house, Mark."

"Anything, what?"

"Come on." I never knew how I could expect both more and less from him at the same time. But I did. I was so good at that.

"Well, did you find anything?"

"No," I admitted.

"Okay. Then quit giving me shit about it."

"Touché."

"I've been fine. But if you want to think I've been living in a box begging people to support my meth habit, go ahead."

"So what have you been doing?" I asked.

"Nothing much." 

"So long as that's cleared up." 'Nothing much' meant the world to me. It was the blank space in fifteen years of fear and wondering and dread. I couldn't meet his eyes. I could choke on my bitterness. My fear flared again, this time with the possibility that I could have Mark back and still never know where he'd been... what he'd done. 

"If you don't want me to stay, just say so."

"Don't be stupid," I snapped.

"I really feel the love in the room, don't you?"

I smiled. An actual smile, with teeth and everything.

"I was kidding," Mark said.

"I know. You made a joke."

"Wasn't funny."

"When are your jokes ever funny?"

"Funnier than yours," he returned.

I trapped my laugh behind my lips, and it came out sounding like a snort. Mark pulled books off a shelf, not really looking at them, and pushed them back in. He had wandering hands. I came over and stood next to him. I reached for him. that I had not touched him yet. Maybe I thought Mark would disappear if I did. As my hand inched toward him, Mark didn't move, like he wondered it too. But then I gripped his sleeve and we were both still right where we were.

"Are you happy, Mark?" He had to look at me before he could determine how I meant it, if there was a sarcastic unsaid 'now' at the end. 

"Yes. Sometimes."

"Yeah. Me too."

Mark's lip started shaking and he screwed up his face. I grabbed his neck, and I remembered our fingers, how mine had always been longer and thinner than his, how we used to put our hands together to compare. I pulled him toward me. My nose was in his hair; I breathed his scalp as he soaked my shirt with his tears. He smelled like dust, diner grease and road trip. I held him until it felt like we were one person. Then I kissed my brother on the forehead and let him go. 

"You might want to think about a shower."

He wiped snot off his nose with the back of his hand. "I wondered when you'd get around to that."

I smiled. "Well, you know. I didn't want it to be the first thing I said when you walked in the door. Come on.”

I had his bag in my hand and lead him up the stairs into a bedroom. Mark took the bag back as I wandered around opening drawers and pulling out pillows and pajamas. I talked about nothing, filling in silence. I hadn't cried, and I was determined to make it out of the room without shedding a tear. I left Mark on the bed, holding the pajamas I'd found. I returned downstairs to look for Ian. _Keep moving. Believe that Mark will be here in the morning, and he will._


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a migraine for 2 days, so I'm sorry for any mistakes/continuity errors, etc in this chapter. I *think* I did ok, but if you catch something, please let me know!

Ian had questions. I had no answers. After I put him to bed, I took my laptop into the living room to continue reading scripts. Of course I couldn't concentrate. I turned the TV on instead, intent on staying awake for Steve. I should have searched Mark's bag for clues. He'd given me nothing about where he'd been. Not that I expected him to pour it all out in the first twenty minutes, but _something_ would have been nice. 

I wondered what he'd told Bucky. 

More importantly, why wasn't Bucky bursting through my door already? 

On the television, an infomercial for an all-in-one nonstick pan demonstrated its wonders. I got up and went to the kitchen for the bottle of wine that Bucky and I had started on his last visit. I grabbed a plastic cup and took them both back to the couch. 

I had just finished my first serving of the shit wine when Mark came downstairs. I stuffed the bottle behind a cushion. Mark was wearing the pajamas I'd given him. I squinted at his feet, trying to remember if he'd had that much hair on them when he was twenty-one. He had hair on his chest, too, coming up above the neckline of the shirt. He looked clean, red-cheeked and freshly scrubbed. The upstairs bathroom had a showerhead with massage settings and excellent water pressure. Best in the penthouse. I imagined he'd enjoyed it after the homeless shelters and ditches I was positive he'd spent the last fifteen years in.

"You're still awake?" I asked.

"Yeah. Why are you?"

"I'm waiting for Steve. His flight's been delayed. Ian's asleep."

Mark reached the bottom of the stairs. "I need a smoke."

"Where were you?" I couldn't help myself. I rose from the couch.

"Tones." Mark sounded _disappointed._ "Do we have to talk about this now?"

"One, thing, Mark. Tell me one fucking thing. That's all I'm asking. It doesn't even have to be where you were. You can pick, okay?" My voice broke under my desperation. I couldn't help thinking of Ian when I'd tucked him in, and how I hadn't been able to answer any of his questions. Not even, _Are you going to be happy now, Dad?_

Mark pulled a cigarette pack out of his (my) pajama pants pocket. He tapped the end on his palm. "I don't want to talk about it yet. I need time, Tony. Can't we just be glad I'm back for now?"

I walked over and clutched the front of his (my) shirt. "One thing. _Please_. I haven't had answers for a decade and a half. Give me _one._ "

He stuck his chin out. "You first. And nothing I'd read about in _Celebrity Spy_. I want something real."

Typical. It was always take, take, take with him. "I should kick you out right now." I started for the staircase. "Your bag upstairs?" Fuck him if he thought he'd come into _my_ home and pull this after making us suffer for _years_. 

"Tony, wait!" Mark grabbed my wrist, stopping me. "I'm sorry. Look, I don't know where to start, all right? Please don't make me leave. I'll tell you--" His eyes darted up and to the left, the direction, my brain joyously reminded me, people looked when they were remembering things. Whatever he said next would be true. 

"Tell me why there was no trace of you."

"When I left home, I went to the water. Found a fishing boat that was setting off for a year-long haul. I signed on, and that's why you couldn't find me."

I stared at him. "This boat let you on at the last minute with no experience and no credentials?"

"It wasn't exactly an above board vessel. I wasn't the only one they didn't ask for papers."

I could see it. Mark had always longed to get out of the city. He probably loved the water. "You never once thought to write home?"

"I really need a cigarette. Do you have a balcony?"

I led him out through the library to the roof top deck. He walked to the edge that looked out over Central Park. 

"Nice view."

"Letters," I reminded him. "Give me one." I held my hand out, and he passed a cigarette over.

"You smoke?"

"There's a reason for every occasion." I waited as he used his lighter, then leaned in so he could light my cancer stick up as well. 

"Letters," he mused. "Short answer? I didn't want to. I figured I'd take the year and go home. But I ended up on another boat, and another, and by the time I was tired of the water, I didn't want to go home. I figured it would be easier if you thought I was dead, so I started going by a different name, and I went where people don't care about Stark. 

"Where was that?" Down below, a lone light bobbed along, probably a runner with a headlamp skirting the park's closing time. 

Mark blew a smoke ring. "You said one thing. Your turn."

"You shouldn't expect Ian to like you."

"I'm great with kids."

"No, you aren't. And he's inherited the right to be pissed off at you. Think about that Mark—people who weren't born before you left hate you."

"And what about the rest of you?"

"You'll have to ask them. What did Bucky say when you called?"

"I chickened out."

I tapped ash on the metal railing separating me from certain death. "I blamed myself all this time that you were gone, but I recently found out that Bucky blamed _himself_ , and now that I know that you _consciously_ decided to fuck off, I think I can safely blame you."

Mark took a long, slow inhale. "What if we don't blame anyone?"

"Were you in love with Bucky?"

He shrugged. "I let him fuck me a few times when I was high."

 

"He told me that he loved you. But he was, what? An easy lay to you?"

Mark, at least, looked aghast. "No! I loved him back. As, like, a best friend. But I'm not into sex. I cared about him enough to get myself into a state of mind where I didn't care. He used to hold me after, though, and I liked that."

"Bucky never caught on that you'd only have sex with him while you were high?"

"No, he did. He didn't like it much. He wanted to talk it out, but I just wanted to get to the part where he was holding me." Mark flung his cigarette butt off the ledge. After a moment's consideration, I did the same. We watched as the flaming embers flared and died in the fall. The breeze was unimpeded up high. 

"He told me he saw you with a woman once."

Mark nodded. "Penny. My wife."

"Does she know you're here?"

"Only in my dreams. She died." As soon as he said it, I knew he had crossed the line between his two lives. Linked them by confession. 

I followed the runner's light. It was easier to talk when we weren't looking at each other. “I'm sorry. How did she…?”

"It was an accident. She was driving. It had rained the day before and the road was still wet. She swerved off and hit a tree." 

"That's how Dad died."

"I read about it." Dad and Mark weren't close. I couldn't imagine him shedding any tears.

"He never stopped blaming me," I said. 

"It wasn't you."

"What?"

"I didn't leave because of you."

The runner had reached the center of the black expanse and was running in a circle. "I remember what you said. About how hard it was to be related to me. So, I think it was a little bit me."

"It wasn’t you," he said.

I put my elbows on the railing and leaned forward.

Mark copied my stance.

"Steve and I spent our honeymoon looking for you."

"Steve looked for me, too?"

"You're surprised?"

"I guess I didn't expect…."

"You didn't leave any trail. The police wouldn't help because there were no signs you had been taken or that anything bad had happened. All those things they do in movies—tracing credit card activity, that stuff—we couldn't do any of it."

"So you gave up and went home?"

"We never gave up. Just… we had Ian and then… my job changed. It wasn't about looking for you anymore. It was about looking after him."

"I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. It only made me want more. 

"Why did you come back?"

"I don't know."

I pulled him back and made him face me. "That's not an answer."

"Can't I just have wanted to? Can't that be a good enough excuse? Because I've been trying to come up with a better one for a long time, and I can't. I'm sorry if it isn't what you wanted to hear."

"You have no idea what I want to hear."

Mark gave me a little smile. "Sure I do. You've made good decisions. I respect you. I look up to you. Your little boy will be okay. I'm sorry for any heartache I caused you. Thank you for all the sacrifices you made for me. For giving up your youth to care for me. Thank you for letting me go even though you didn't understand it. I have always loved you." I felt the bitterness welling up inside me, but I stopped it from coming out. Mark turned away. "See? I know exactly what you want to hear."

I rubbed the railing, working it so intently that the movement traveled up my arms until my shoulders were part of it.

"Tones, are you all right?"

As quickly as it had come, my bile evaporated. I didn't mean for Mark to feel it. "I don't know.”

"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. But it's true, you know? And I did mean it, even if the context wasn't very…"

I took a breath and pulled myself together. "It's late. You should go to bed."

"In a minute," he said.

"Okay."

"This is the calm before the storm. I just want to be still for a little longer."

I wanted another cigarette. No. I wanted to watch with him the ashes dancing on the air as they fell. "You know, the whole time you were gone, I never let anyone else call me Tones. I was saving it for you." I wanted to feel I had my brother back.

#

Steve and I met because of Mark. I would not go so far as to say that we had stayed married because of him, but if the first crisis of your marriage is that your husband's brother goes missing and you can make it through that, as we did, that was something.

Steve had been so angry. "I'm going to kill him," he kept saying when we were looking for him. "I'm going to kill him."

I heard a key in the lock and then the door opened. Steve came in with his suitcase. "Hey, babe."

"Tony? What are you doing up?"

"Waiting for you." 

"In the dark?"

"I have a wine headache." I'd finished the bottle after Mark went to bed. I was feeling... the opposite of good. "I didn't want to wake anyone. Let me help you." I wobbled, the wine hitting me as I reached for his coat to unbutton it.

"Come upstairs."

"Tony, our bedroom is that way." Steve tried to nudge me down the hall. 

"We have a guest. I want you to see him before he wakes up, so when I think this is all a dream, you can tell me it's not."

"Tony, is Peter back?"

"It's Mark," I said gleefully. Maybe the wine hadn't made me feel _all_ bad, even if it was shit.

“Baby, Mark is…”

“Upstairs in the guestroom.”

He wrapped an arm around my waist. I pulled him up the stairs, or rather, I stumbled up the stairs and he followed close behind to catch me if I fell. What a great guy. “You're not making any sense. Mark can't be here.”

"I know. And yet…" I opened the door and pulled him into the guest room. “See?” 

Steve left me unsupported for a moment and tiptoed around the bed to get a closer look at Mark's face. “It really is him.”

“Told you so.” I pounded Mark on the back and almost toppled on top of him. He slept with his arms wrapped around two pillows. I remembered what Mark had said about liking to be held. I started to crawl into bed, intent on doing that. Steve grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up. I squeaked. Mark groaned and twitched. He always slept like a log. Bet he got along great on the fishing boats.

“Babe.”

“Don’t worry, he sleeps like a log.”

“Did he say anything? About where he's been?"

"Who cares? He's here now." I poked him again. Steve picked me up. I beamed at him. Unfortunately, he put me down when he'd moved me too far away to touch Mark again. 

"Come on. You need to sleep this off. Seems like tomorrow is going to be one heck of a day."

I couldn't argue, so I let him guide me downstairs and into our room. Another thousand questions and a hangover awaited me in the morning.

"Do you think he'll still be here?" That was the first, and most important question.

"He'd better be," Steve growled. I latched onto his arm and bit his bicep. "Tony!" Steve pried me off. I licked the sweater out of my mouth.

"What, you know what that voice does to me."

"I am not happy with you for being drunk right now. Ian is here, and we don't know what state Mark is in. You need to be at your best." 

I fell into bed and pulled him down. "Be angry at me tomorrow. I need you too much tonight." 

"Okay." Steve kissed my forehead and got up. I tried to follow, but he pressed me down. "Stay. I'm going to pee. Be right back."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

I was asleep before he returned, but I woke up in his arms, where I needed to be.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! Two chapters tonight!

Steve slept nude. He said it was because he was an old fogie at heart, come from a time when men didn't believe in pajamas. But the truth was, he ran hot. He couldn't stand to combine clothes, even pajamas, with sheets and blankets and me, so something had to go. I wasn't giving up the blanket, and I wouldn't let him give up me. In the end, it was a compromise that worked wonderfully. Sometimes I even did my part and slept naked too. All in the honor of being a good husband. 

I was damn confused when I woke up fully dressed and Steve had his pants on. "You know Ian only has himself to blame if he comes in here this early, right?" I mumbled into Steve's hip, because Steve was sitting up in our bed and I wasn't. 

"Do you think we should postpone his birthday party?" Steve asked. He stroked my hair, tugging at the nape the way I liked, so his question almost didn't register.

"Why? He's not in trouble for anything. Or do you mean because this is an obligatory family affair with invitees who bore him and he'll probably spend the whole time hiding anyway, so we could save time and trouble by not having it, instead of enforcing to him the concept of sucking it up and being polite because these people are all you've got and they love you?" Steve made his 'disapproving harrumph' noise, and I realized a) I was still kind of drunk and b) slurring and c) the words I meant to say and the words that came out of my mouth probably bore little resemblance vis' a vis being intelligible. I tried again: "Whufor? Hegood." Then I sexily bit Steve's hip. Or, from Steve's perspective, collapsed on Steve's hip with my mouth open. 

"Actually, I was thinking about Mark."

"My brother," I said happily. "Party for Mark. Mark's home." I lurched up and swayed dizzily. I regarded Steve with wide-eyed, fanatical concern. "Do you think he's still here?"

"I'm positive. I already saw him this morning." I must have looked hurt or puppy-dog confused, because Steve's face went soft in that 'I love you' way, and he reached out and held my cheeks and used his thumbs to stroke down my jawline. Baby, I've waited fifteen years to talk to him too. Don't be angry that I stole a minute."

I kissed his palm. "I'm not. What did you talk about? Is he staying?" That was all I needed to know."

"I said, 'Do you know what your leaving did to Tony? He was working himself to death. He made ten films the year you left and six and a play the year after. How is that okay? He was not okay.'"

Hearing Steve repeat what he'd told Mark, probably with the same stern resolve, I remembered that we'd pledged to always protect each other. "I was okay," I reminded him. "I had you." 

Steve rolled on top of me. "You weren't. But we got through it, and I will not let Mark fuck you up again." Lying on my back, looking up at the man I loved with my whole life, looking down at me with such conviction, I wanted to capture the moment in a bubble and hold it, fragile and perfect, and believe it wouldn't pop. 

"Okay," I said. Steve kissed me, like I'd done a good thing. Then he rolled off me. 

"Mark needs to talk to the police about being back. If he doesn't do it soon, word will get out, and there could be problems. He needs to be clean and clear. I won't have him dragging you down."

"Okay," I repeated. "I'll talk to him."

"What time are the caterers coming?"

"Five. And the penguins will be here at seven."

Steve stopped in the act of standing up. "The what?"

"They're Ian's favorite animal. And I hired two handlers. I wouldn't just have unattended penguins in the apartment. Stop looking at me like that. You're doing Dr. Reynolds' face."

The face persisted.

"They'll stay in the grotto!" I dug myself in a little deeper.

Steve sighed. "What. Grotto?" Spoken as only someone who has learned to both grit his teeth and be supportive at the same time can. 

"The one the guys who are coming at one are going to build on the west landing. I thought we could convert it into a rock garden later. After the penguins are gone."

"So... the penguins won't be a permanent feature?"

"No! Not at all. They're rented for the evening. Ninety minutes, tops. I even have someone from animal welfare coming to make sure it's all on the up and up. I mean, come on, Steve, if I can't spend my movie star money making my kid happy, what am I good for?"

Steve managed to choke out a laugh, but he was serious when he looked at me. Steve didn't like it when I said things like that. "Tony, you're good for everything. We love you."

I smiled. Steve ran warm, and sometimes he made me feel it too, like we shared the same heart. "Love you too," I mumbled. Steve smiled back, and finally got up and walked into the bathroom. I watched his ass leave, then got up and changed clothes. 

The doorbell rang. I went to answer it. 

“Where is the bastard?” Natasha pushed through the door before I had it half open. Bucky stood behind her and smiled awkwardly, silent for once.

"How did you get past Scott?" 

She glared at me. "Where is he?"

“That's not a very nice way to talk about Steve.”

"I was talking about Mark."

"How did you know Mark was--" The kitchen door swung open, and Mark himself appeared. We all stopped and stared at him. Even though I knew he was still in my home, seeing him emerge from the kitchen took me off guard. 

"I called Bucky this morning," Mark said. 

Natasha smacked Mark. He shook the sting out of his face. I may have internally celebrated a tiny bit. Then I remembered how hard she could hit and winced. 

“Better?” he said.

“Not even close, you fucking jackass.”

Steve walked in and assessed the situation with two flicks of his blue eyes. “If you two are going to fight it out, could you please do it somewhere else?”

Mark put his hands up. “I’m not doing any fighting. If she wants to pummel me, that’s her business.”

Natasha poked him. “You left. Without a word. You fucking selfish jackass.”

“You said that already.”

“I will say it as often as I want.” In age, Natasha was the closest of us to Mark. When he left, while I'd driven myself (and Steve) ragged with work and the quest to find him, she had shut down. It wasn't an exaggeration to say that she and Bucky had saved each other. 

“Nat, come on now. He’s your friend,” Bucky said. “Even if he is a dipshit.”

“Thanks,” said Mark.

Bucky, who had been standing some feet away and continuing to stare at Mark, took a few strides forward, grabbed Mark and lifted him off the floor. “I missed you too, you asshole.” 

Mark froze, feet dangling. His hands twitched as though he would hug Bucky back, but since Bucky had him straight-jacketed in his embrace, this was impossible. 

“Bucky, don’t hurt him,” I said. Our father always said Mark was built like a bird—that he had hollow bones that weren’t good for anything but to break. He didn't know all the stupid life-risking shit Mark pulled on a weekly basis. I was the one watching him stand between the cars of moving subways tagging windows with spray paint and playing chicken in dad's convertible. 

Bucky set Mark down. “Sorry. I just can't believe you're back. If you knew how long we'd looked and how much it means--” He cut himself off.

“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “But if you all knew…”

“Honey, are you alright?” Natasha was focused on Bucky, who was releasing torrents of snot and tears. He waved her away. 

“I’m fine. Just fine. Carry on with what you were doing.”

I bit back the urge to say that emotional breakdowns were exactly what we were doing this morning. I sent a silent signal to Steve for help. 

"Having breakfast, I guess. You're welcome to join us." God bless him. 

“What is it?” Bucky perked up.

“Bacon and eggs.”

He made a face. 

“When’s the last nonholiday time I asked you to eat with us, Bucky?” I asked.

Natasha grabbed his hand. “Sounds great.” She pulled him toward the kitchen. "Ian's party, is still tonight, right?"

"Yes," Steve said. "Which reminds me..." He grabbed Mark's elbow, stopping him from returning to the kitchen. "If you're really back, you need to speak to the detective in charge of your case."

I held my breath as Mark looked at Steve's hand, still gripping him, and then at Steve. "I'm staying for as long as I can."

I chose not to worry about what that meant. I breathed again. 

"Good," Steve said.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Ian's POV. I needed to show things from his perspective for a bit.

Someone was abusing the piano, my piano, clunking the keys, making a mockery of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody no. 6 that was open upon it. How could anyone misread a score so badly? I huddled in my secret cabinet next to the washing machine, the proximity of boxes of Tide and bottles of Clorox protecting me from out there. Noise filtered from the living room through the hallway, past my father's study and the library, rounding the corner, past my bedroom, and finally, wafting into the utility room and through the thin door of my hiding place--low murmurs broken by the occasional blast of laughter, the sound of adults charming themselves. I heard glasses clinking against porcelain coasters, and the shrill, steady shriek of a teakettle. I squeezed my forearms against my ears. I tried to tug my hair, but could not get a good hold of it. My dark curls were cut off the day before, and I had my annual crew cut. I was like a sheep, shorn once a year. This was not an unhappy comparison. I liked sheep. 

I began to count beats as the perpetrator, my cousin, had to be her, plunked on. Her playing was unfinished and vulgar while I was scrubbed as clean as I could be. In my white trousers and gray and white striped shirt, I looked like a short sailor in an old film. I recited the route from my home to Battery Park with my lips against my knees. "72nd to 66th Lincoln Center to 59th Columbus Circle to 50th to 42nd Times Square to 34th Penn Station to 28th to 23rd to 18th to 14th to Christopher Street Sheridan Square to Houston Street" and on and on, with the repeatedly misplayed note substituting itself for the chime of the subway doors opening and closing. 

I was on Chambers Street when the door to my little cabinet opened and light flooded in. I looked up, squinting, at the silhouette of my father crouching in front of me in bare feet. His shirt rippled as he moved toward me. My father had his clothes tailored to fit him perfectly, to move as he moved, to call into question where he stopped and the clothes began. Papa and I were his living mannequins. He dressed me like a doll, which was something all parents do with their children, I was told. He dressed Papa as if he were the most handsome man in the world. Daddy favored track pants and T-shirts when Papa was away, which he hid in the guest room closet so Papa would not toss them for being "old enough to walk themselves to the garbage."

"Got room in there for one more, Buddy?"

I pushed the detergent out of the way, and he squeezed his head and shoulders in beside me. My father was a long man. It was a more accurate description than 'tall.' He was not tall. But he knew how to seem bigger than he was. His legs and torso, even his arms, went on forever. If he were in a book about the Old West, he would be introduced into the story with someone saying, "Now there goes a long drink of water." I scooted aside, and he propped himself up on an elbow. His legs stretched alongside the washing machine and dryer.

"What's up?"

The train in my head was stuck in the station. The conductor announced red signals ahead. "I don't know. I needed a break." I was supposed to take breaks when I needed them. 

"It's okay. Just…what's wrong right now? This very moment?"

"Cassie's playing my piano. She's getting it all wrong." My fingers scrambled against his bare arm, clawing for purchase on the dark brown hair, leaving red marks of desperation to glare up from his skin.

He closed his hand over mine. "I made her stop. Listen."

I did, and he was right. The music had stopped. The notes I had been hearing were echoes in my head, and I had not realized. "I can still hear it in my head." I pushed my index fingers into my ears. "She really messed it up, Dad. Cassie should have lessons, and she should not be allowed to play on my piano. I don't like it. I did routes, and it didn't help." The passengers on my train were getting restless. I needed to get them to Battery Park.

"Where did you go?" he asked.

"Battery Park, but you came in on Chambers Street."

My father's hand covered mine. "Are you going to go crazy if you don't finish it?" 

"Yes."

"Go on, then." He smiled, slow and easy like the jazz music he played for Papa. 

"Chambers Street to Cortlandt Street to Rector Street to South Ferry. You must be in the first five cars to get off at the South Ferry station."

"First five cars," my father repeated. I did not think he was talking to me. He twisted onto his back and worked an arm behind me. His head and shoulders pressed against the wall. "Feel better now?"

Now that I was freed from the distraction of leaving something unfinished, the plunked notes returned. "I can still hear the bad music, Dad." 

"Let's try putting some different music in there, then." He pulled me against his chest and folded his arms around me. I felt the notes rumbling through his torso before I heard them. His voice was warm, like his embrace, and strong, too, though the strength was subtle, almost invisible, like a secret identity that he revealed only when he needed to save someone. 

I was Johann Bach and George Handel, Franz Liszt and Felix Mendelssohn; my father was Chet Baker and Etta James, Louis Prima and Dean Martin. Somehow, we fit. He tapped the rhythm on my back. Each soft thump pushed distraction to the edges of my brain until it was just me and him and nothing else. 

"Are you ready to go back out there with me?"

"I don't know." I liked it here on his chest.

He wiggled out of the cabinet on his back and butt with me still on top of him.

"Come on, Buddy. You only turn eleven once. You think we'd throw a party like this for any old occasion? I know you love the penguins." He blew a raspberry against my neck. The penguins were pretty neat, but I pushed him off. 

"Quit it, Dad. It's not my party. It's the grown-up party. I’m not even friends with the kids here. They all think I’m weird."

"Buddy, just come back, alright? You did the right thing, taking some alone time, and if anything starts to bother you again, you can come tell me, and I'll help you, okay? People are starting to ask where the birthday boy is."

"I don't like people talking about me."

"They just miss you, Bud. It's all people you know."

"I don't care."

"I made individual cakes. You get your very own." He stretched the last word until it became a song unto itself.

"I saw the caterers."

"I made the cakes."

No boy would turn down his own cake. 

He followed me into the hall. I tapped the inside of each doorjamb as we passed it. One, two, three, four, up to eight, to make four doorways in total. 

Papa appeared. His blond hair was mussed, like he'd been rubbing it. Or someone else had. Probably Dad. Rubbing our heads was one of his favorite things. Papa's shirt was new. It sparkled, like him, like my father. The neck plunged to a V, and even though I was his son and not supposed to think of such things, I knew that it meant he was attractive. He grabbed our hands. "I was just coming after you. Come on, both of you, back to the party." 

Their whispers: "Is he all right?" "He'll be fine," floated over me into the room, and then I was surrounded by adults, all drinking wine, none of them looking at me, all of them looking away, except for Uncle Bucky, who always looked, always. And the children playing around the edges, running in and out of the penguin grotto, where I should have been, alone.

I went to get the remote-controlled car that my father's friend Carol had given me off the bookshelf where my father had put it so it would not get stepped on. I put it on the floor and raced it around table legs and people legs, under the couch and out again, dodging people who wanted me to call them aunt and uncle, almost none of them related to me. I circled Uncle Mark, my father's brother, who did not care if I called him uncle or not. He was holding a stuffed bear under one arm and talking to Carol. He put his foot out and stopped my car.

"I got you something. It's a bear." He thrust it at me like it would explode if he didn't hand it off immediately. So far all of my interactions with Mark had been like this, with warning signs declaring Explosion Imminent. 

I grabbed it by the green ribbon around its throat. I stared at the car. Waited.

"You're welcome." He moved his foot and freed the car. 

"I'm glad to see you're playing with your car," Carol said.

She ruffled my hair, what was left of it. I switched the car to reverse and walked backward with it, watching her. Carol knew my father from acting. She was an actor, too, only she didn't quit like him. For every photographer my father had shadowing him, she had ten. For every person stopping him when we went out, she had fifteen. When she came over, she brought the wind indoors with her and it knocked everyone over while she breezed about and didn't notice a thing, like she thought chaos was normal. She was beautiful, too. Different from my father, whose beauty not everyone could see, but universally, the kind of beauty that started wars, and that could have had something to do with it, the chaos around her. 

"Cass, honey, we need to go. Mommy has a headache." Uncle Bucky always sounded like he was making an announcement. His voice was the car horn that woke you at three in the morning and made you wonder who was out there to honk at. I didn't bother looking around for him. If Uncle Bucky were in another state and had something to say, I would hear him. 

"I'll find some aspirin for the road." My papa, then, walking away, his feet now as bare as my father's.

I followed them with the car, the little group saying goodbye, circled around Aunt Natasha's and my father's legs as they embraced and around Papa, who tapped two pills into Aunt Natasha's hand. Whenever I had a headache, my father said it was due to dehydration and low potassium. He gave me a banana and a glass of water. Everything was linked to a deficiency. Fix the deficiency, cure the problem. My friend Bobby was a jerk who ran faster than me. What was the cure for that? Everyday he took off, shouting, "Every man for himself!" because he saw it on some stupid TV show, racing across the park, putting distance between me and him, between him and the older boys who chased us, older boys who got closer to me every day, and I knew they were just teasing now and any day they would catch me, like they caught Milo, this other boy in my class, who wasn't really named Milo, but was Michael Logan or something, and he got all bruised up, so it was only a matter of time because I could not run any faster than I did, not without growing another inch, before it was my turn to be thrown to the ground and devoured. 

Aunt Natasha planted herself in front of me, like Uncle Mark had, like the only way to get my attention was to be right there. I waited as she kissed me and then drove around her. Cassie came out from the kitchen with my father, holding a plate of cake imprisoned in cling wrap. He had his hand on her shoulder. I drove the car between them so they would have to step apart. Drove it round and round. 

"Ian, that's enough with the car," Dad said.

"He's just having fun." Papa, never around, what did he know?

"I know what he's doing. Ian, park the car. Now." 

I drove it under the coffee table and set the remote down. Walked away. My father grabbed me, kissed me. Leaned down and whispered that he loved me, and that I had grown so much this year. Not enough to sprint faster than Bobby. Not enough to have a chance at fighting back when they caught me. 

I hugged my father, wanted to be him, just for a moment, my father who battled aliens and sent them shrieking to their deaths, who carried the golden orb of something or other up a mountain on his back without breaking a sweat, my father, who put himself between me and every stranger like a gatekeeper, saying, "You may not pass." My father, who could talk to anyone like he always knew them, who could surely outrun anyone, who would not bother with outrunning them. My father, who would stand his ground and win, knock them down with words, make them wonder why they had had the idea to attack him at all. 

My parents tucked me in after everyone and the penguins left, and I lay awake listening to the shuffle of dishes back into the kitchen, Dad prodding Uncle Mark to help. Papa laughing at something. I closed my eyes, marked the notes, found the key of it. One day I would write it into a symphony and name it after him.

When the house was quiet, I crept out of my room in my pajamas. Light from the other buildings penetrated the living room and reached into the hallway, grasping for me like fingers. I pulled myself on my belly past the bathroom. The door was open a sliver. Uncle Mark was inside, standing at the sink in my father's pajama bottoms. His back flexed as he tilted his head upward, raised his hand to his mouth, and tumbled pills into it. He looked at the door and I froze. 

He touched the sink like he was grounding himself. I stopped breathing until he moved. He turned back to the sink, turned the water on and drank, forming a cup from his hands. If he was on drugs, Dad would be mad. If I told, he might make Mark leave.

If I told, I might break his heart.

I inched toward the next doorway and peeked around it. My parents were standing together in front of the windows. Papa's head on my father's shoulder. Dad's cheek rubbing Papa's hair, and his arms around Papa's back. They were moving, just a little; rocking together. I focused my ears to hear what they were saying, but I only heard music. It was quiet like it was their secret. If they knew I was there, I would make a big deal and tell them to stop being gross. They could not see me, though, so I lay on my stomach and watched my parents dance with the floating lights of our neighborhood behind them.

I fell asleep on the floor with my face pressed into the carpeting. When I woke up, Uncle Mark was tilting me off his shoulders onto my bed, leaving my head to flop onto the pillow. He pulled the covers up to my chin, pulled my arm free and dropped it around the bear he’d given me. At the door, he turned around.

"You're a lucky boy, you know."

I watched him. He didn't seem off like that man in the bodega. Was he taking pills for something that could be cured with a banana and a glass of water?

"Your parents love you. They're proud of you. That's what I mean when I say you're lucky. I'm not talking about any of the other stuff. The private school. Having anything you want. Though that's nice, too."

"I'm going to get the s-word kicked out of me by some boys at school." 

He tilted his head and just looked at me for a minute. "I'm sorry, kid. That fucking sucks." He pulled the door closed halfway when he left, just like I liked it, but he couldn't have known that. 

I tried to imagine my father saying this, and I couldn't. For some reason, I felt better now that I wasn't the only one aware of the inevitable. Didn't mean I was going to run any slower, though.


	16. Chapter 16

After Mark spoke to the police (and the FBI), things exploded. Bucky put his publicist hat on and shepherded Mark and I through a sit-down interview with a carefully selected television journalist who asked questions hard enough to satisfy the public but not so hard that she came off as insensitive. I wished she'd push harder because I had questions I wanted to ask Mark, like "What's next?" and others I couldn't voice. 

A new group of paparazzi assembled outside my building. I looked for Peter among them, but didn't see him. I texted him and he responded that he was tied up in his custody battle. He added that he was "miffed" he didn't get the exclusive on Mark being back, and I felt bad for a few seconds. Then I pulled my head out my ass, focused on the first part of his message, and called him to see how he was doing. 

Now that Mark was back, he kept leaving. Once a week he left the apartment so he was gone when I came back from dropping Ian at school. He returned a few hours later, looking haggard. He'd go to his room, close the door, and not come out until dinner, leaving me to wish I'd ignored my pledge to let him keep his privacy and ransacked the place to find any clue to his secrets. On those days, he ate like a bird.

Steve told me not to worry, but I knew he was worried too. When Mark was little, he had terrible nightmares. He'd started abusing substances to quiet them. With his wife gone, I wondered if he'd started again. I considered asking Peter to look into it, figured he needed a distraction from his own life, but I couldn't do it. I'd wanted Mark back for so long that I tiptoed over egg shells to keep him here and happy. Steve didn't think Mark was using again, and I trusted him. Ian had developed a habit of staying in the room when Mark was there and staring at him, which I saw as a good sign, if slightly jarring for how different it was from his usual behavior of losing interest as soon as he saw Bucky.

About a month after Mark's return, I was walking from the staircase to the library when I heard the doorknob turn at Ian's usual homecoming time. I stopped halfway, so from the viewpoint of someone entering, it could give the impression that I had spent the day frozen there, watching the door. Ian came in and gave me a look that suggested I was spot on. "What?" I said. At least I had stopped running down to the lobby to look for him every five minutes after the clock struck three. That had to count for something. 

He closed the door with both hands on the knob. With his back turned, I started my itemization. Ten fingers. One head. Two legs. The major things all in place. Then he turned around, and my flags went up. He always took his tie off and untucked his shirt when school was out, but I was looking at a boy whose tie was around his neck and whose shirt was tucked in. As he came near, I saw that his shirt was wrinkled and his trousers were caked in dust. 

As he walked past me, I crouched in front of him, guiding his attention toward me. His bottom lip had a sliver of blood dried in a vertical line down the middle. His cheeks, now that I was close enough to kiss him, revealed their own coat of dirt and dried tears.

"Oh, hi, Dad." His expression reflected perfect surprise, as if he had forgotten he had already acknowledged me. 

"What happened? Did you fall down in the park?" I traced my fingers over his head, checking for more bruises and scratches. 

He blinked. "I'm fine."

I felt something behind his ear. I pulled the lobe forward. "You're bleeding." I tried to control my tone, hoped he could not hear the rage that surged through me.

"It doesn't hurt."

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." I walked him into the bathroom and put the toilet seat down. I helped him out of his blazer and dropped it on the floor. "Sit." I turned the faucet on and let the water run over my fingers until it was warm. I twisted around so I could watch Ian at the same time. He was looking at his hands, tapping a melody that I could not hear on his knees. 

I concentrated on the water enveloping my hands. Whatever shields Ian had used to get himself home were crumbling. _Careful. Easy now._ I knelt in front of him. "I went out shopping today. The Christmas rush is starting already. Couldn’t believe it." 

He was mumbling. "The subway has 472 stations serving 25 routes." I pressed a warm washcloth to his face and rubbed the dirt and tears and dried blood away. 

"Got knocked over by someone going for a Yu-Gi-Oh gift set. Have you made your list yet?" 

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6 diamond, 7, 7 diamond…"

"I know it’s only September, but apparently it’s the thing to do." 

"…A, B, C, D, E, F, G, J, L, M, N, Q, R, S, V, W, Z." 

I pulled his tie over his head. He lifted his arms and let me tug off his shirt. I stood him up and turned him around and around. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" 

He shook his head. 

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Dad, I just want to take a nap now, is that ok?" 

I followed him into his bedroom. He took off his pants and got into bed. He grabbed his birthday bear as I pulled the covers around his chin, so tight he could not move, _snug as a bug in a rug_. I kissed him. 

"I’m not a very fast runner, Dad." 

"You're faster than I was when I was eleven."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Faster than I was at twelve, too. Sometimes speed doesn't matter, Buddy."

"Yeah." 

"You’re home now. You’re safe now. Do you want me to walk you home tomorrow?" His eyes would not stay open even though the sun was shining outside.

"No, that’s all right. It won’t happen again. I'm smarter now."

"Tell me in the morning if you change your mind. Sleep tight, honey." 

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" He looked so small with his head peeking out above the blanket.

"I'm really faster than you were?"

"Really truly you are."

"Okay." 

I caught a little smile from him as I closed the door. I left it open a crack so the hall light could shine through after it got dark because the creepy crawlies still frightened him sometimes. They frightened his daddy, too.

I fixed myself a mimosa in the kitchen, and I could hear Natasha in my mind berating me for having a breakfast drink in the middle of the afternoon, but I didn't care. I stood over the sink with a fluted glass in my hand and thought about Lena Horne on the radio and about my little boy coming in like something broken, like someone else’s kid because _that shit did not happen to my child and I'd kill whoever did that to him_. The glass fell out of my hand into the sink and I shattered along with it because I could not protect my little boy. 

I thought about calling Steve just to hear his voice. 

Instead, I stood in the hallway outside Ian's door and listened to my sleeping boy breathe. I never should have let him go out alone. I thirsted for vengeance on whoever did this. Older boys. But I couldn’t take my rage out on children. The door opened and Mark walked through. I could smell smoke wafting off him. He saw me and smiled. I didn't smile back.

He’d do.

“What are you standing there for, Tony?” Mark said. “You’re making me nervous.” He sounded like our mother when he laughed, flighty and pure, like he had missed out on the bad things in his life, or as if he wanted to be sure everyone else did. I picked the lie out of his tone, the false notes that wavered below the others, same as our mother. He could fool other people, but not me. Not when I knew when each of those false notes had entered his laugh--not when I was responsible for half of them. 

I didn’t want to hit him anymore. I wanted to be left alone. 

I had no escape except to face him, so I stepped out of the hall where I was hovering at Ian’s door, into the fading natural light of the living room’s windows.

“Just thinking about things.”

“Tony? You all right?” Mark reached out to me. “Why are you crying?”

“Do you remember when we were little?”

“No.”

“You don’t remember when we were little?”

“Not when you were. I know perfectly well when I was.”

“We were little at the same time, Mark.”

“You’ve always been big to me. Some people, when I think about them, they’re always bigger. You’re one of those people, Tony. You going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” I said. His thumbs pressed against my cheeks, pushing my tears across my skin. “I’m just tired.” I wasn't sure when he'd felt familiar enough with me to touch me like this again. It almost made my tears resume.

“You don’t get tired.” He took one hand away and used it to hook his hair behind his ear, but the other flattened against my face, and I found myself pushing toward its comfort and past it. Love and hate existed in the same breath with us. 

“What would you know about me?” I stepped around him. I needed space, just a fraction of a second between me and him, to stop myself from hitting him. 

“Where’s Ian?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Something you should be doing from the sounds of it.”

“I just need to sit for a minute.” 

“Come on, Tony.” He grabbed my wrist. I stumbled after him into my bedroom. “You look like crap.”

I sat down on the bed. “He got beat up on the way home from school today. I guess it hit me pretty hard.”

“You mean he got in a fight?” Mark pulled my leg onto his lap and started taking my shoes off.

I shrugged. “I’m guessing there wasn’t much fighting happening on his end.”

“You want I should teach him a few moves?” he said, doing his best DeNiro and boxing the air.

“You think you can teach him better than his dad the action hero?”

Mark dropped his fists and stared at me, humor sucked out of the air.

“Sorry,” I said.

Mark shrugged. “Forget it, it was stupid.”

“No, Mark, it wasn't. It’s just that Ian’s not a fighter. Can’t really picture him with fists up, you know?”

“Yeah." Then more thoughtfully, "Yeah.”

“He plays the piano.” 

“Yeah.” He gave my shoulders a shove and I toppled backward onto the pillow. He passed his hand over my forehead like he was checking for a temperature.

“Go to sleep.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He turned the light out as he left.

#

I woke up disoriented and tangled in bedclothes. I reached for Steve, and my hand slapped the empty bed. It was not yet three in the morning. Even after years of knowing Steve's schedule, I still woke in the night confused when he was not there. The first year I was terrified that he would not return. The feeling had mostly subsided, but there were times when it returned with a vengeance. I shook my foot loose of the sheet and tumble-fell out of bed. I padded into the utility room where I started the washing machine and stood over it as the water rushed in. My life was a battle between holding onto an elusive inner stillness and grabbing everything I held dear and running before something snatched it away. I gripped the white machine. I breathed, tried to focus.

It would be so easy to take Ian and go. We could be at Steve's side before anyone missed us. I felt sick. I closed the lid on the machine. Be responsible. Be mature. Stay. My heart was pounding.

I had to go. It was run or go crazy. I changed my shirt, only half aware of what I was doing. I crept into Ian's room and squeezed his feet into his sneakers and manipulated his sleeping arms into his jacket. He moaned, barely awake as his head lolled against my chest.

"It's okay, Buddy." I picked him up, grabbed the car keys, and we were off. He sat mutely and stared at me. Maybe he slept. 

We were in Connecticut when I came to my senses. It was a drive of under an hour, but even so.... What was I doing? My child was in the backseat, probably terrified that Daddy had lost his mind.

"You okay, Buddy?" I tried to sound cheerful. Instead, I sounded desperate.

"I'm hungry," he said.

I pulled off interstate 95. "Pancakes sound good?" I steered the car toward a McDonald's. 

"Can we go in?"

"No, Buddy. We'll just drive through." I was not in a 'face the world' sort of mood.

"Okay."  
I never wanted my son to understand the need that sometimes grabbed me--the monster that compelled me to run before it smothered me and consumed everything I had, everything I am--that made me doubt I had ever had anything at all. 

"I'm sorry I woke you up, Buddy. I just felt like taking a drive."

There was a shuffling behind me, and Ian's head appeared at my shoulder. "Don't be sad, Dad. It's almost morning."

I rubbed his head. "You're a good boy, Ian."

"Thanks." He kissed me and sat back. I heard the seat belt click. I pulled the car through the drive-thru. The girl at the window was pleased to see us. I gave her five dollars and an autograph, and she gave me a plastic tray of pancakes. I parked and helped Ian get arranged so he could eat without much trouble. I opened the syrup packet for him. 

He was sleeping when I pulled into the parking garage beneath our building. Mark was sitting on the stairs inside the apartment, waiting. I carried Ian into his room and performed the same actions I had done earlier in reverse so by six my boy was in bed coatless and shoeless and I was in my room, crashed on top of the covers, trying very hard to think of nothing. Mark came in and sat down on the bed. I was on my side, facing away from him.

He didn’t say anything. I could feel him watching me. When he touched my shoulder, I could not stop the sobs from coming. He laid down and slid his arm around my chest and soon I felt his weight, warm and whole, against my back, his breath on my neck. I'd held him like this after our mother died. 

"I love you," he said. "I just want you to know that. I'm here for you." It made me cry all the harder, and he was there, pressing against me, brushing my hair back with his hand, and I wondered what I had done—when we had switched places and he had started taking care of me. I had always taken care of him. Now, with his hand clutching mine against my chest, I felt that part of my identity—Mark's Older Brother, which flourished even in the years he was gone, stronger than before he left--slipping away. I couldn't bear to lose another piece of myself. 

"You should go."

"I don't mind staying with you."

I pulled my hand free and sat up. "I don't need you. Get out of here."

He backed off the bed, looking at me like he was trying to recognize me. "All right."

I stared at the wall until I heard him walking away, and then I crumbled into myself, bashed my forehead against my knees to keep from voicing my screams. 

I spared myself a moment of selfishness and wished for Steve.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to give some love to everyone who is reading this. Thank you!!

All day I told myself that I wasn't going to pick up Ian from school. I wasn't going to follow him home. I wasn't going to spy on him from a distance and identify the kids who had hurt him. At 2:30, I had a flash of brilliance for keeping myself home. I could cook risotto. It forces you to stand at the stove for an hour. Can't be left alone. Ian didn't want me to get him. So I wouldn't. I'd just stand there and stir a pot of rice. 

I didn't think I could stand being tied to one place for an hour, so instead I called Bobby's mother and asked her if she knew anything about these boys who'd attacked my son.

Bobby hadn't mentioned them.

I didn't know where Mark was. He'd done his disappearing act later than usual. He also hadn't spoken to me since I'd rejected his attempt to comfort me the night before. Maybe I should have let him. Steve was in Buffalo or Albany getting his fifth or seventh honorary doctorate from a university. I didn't want to bother him. Leaning against the kitchen counter, not cooking risotto, I closed my eyes and imagined his advice.

"Ian is a young man and he needs the space to make choices and mistakes. We can't protect him all the time." Fuck that. Sorry, Imaginary Steve. Eyes sprung open, I turned on my heel and made for the door. 

The door opened first. In walked Bucky. "Tones! Have you read those scripts yet? You're having lunch with Ron Howard tomorrow, so tell me you've at least read the Western."

I almost kissed him. Some benevolent deity had dropped Bucky, the ultimate distraction, at my door. I'd never make it in time to meet Ian now. Score one for my kid not being mad at me. Unless... he wanted me to get him? Bucky was already entering the library, so I followed him. He glanced at my script tower, muttering some unflattering words, and dove in. While Bucky caused the scripts to cascade onto my desk and the floor, I pulled the script he was talking about it from beneath my keyboard. 

"This one? I'm almost done."

"Yes!" Bucky snatched it. "Perfect. Let's do a read through, right now."

"What role am I meeting to discuss?" The way I saw it, the two choices were the lovelorn lead on a quest of revenge or the father of the lovelorn lead's lost love. 

"Bad guy."

"Bad guy?" I hadn't noticed a bad guy.

"Yeah, he goes after the lead after his daughter dies."

"Oh." So the father. Showed something about me that I hadn't interpreted that as the action of a villain. I'd seen it as reasonable behavior. I'd run it by Steve. Real Steve, who gave better advice than Imaginary Steve. I nodded at Bucky. "I think I could bring a lot to that role."

"Let's read."

We went back to the living room and sat on the couch. Bucky was fun to read with because he did voices and got involved. I even stopped glancing at the clock every ten seconds. We were in the second act when I heard the key in the lock. 

In came Ian, looking sullen, then Mark, who appeared mildly shocked but also annoyed, and finally Peter, who looked pissed off. 

"Hi?" I said.

Ian took his shoes off and started for the stairs. "Tell Uncle Bucky hello," I said automatically. Ian waved with palpable disinterest. 

Mark tried to hover in the doorway, but Peter pushed him forward. "Tell him, or I will." Mark glared at Peter and didn't say anything.

Ian spun around. "I said I didn't need anyone to walk me home. I said I could do it. I was fine!" His ire seemed to be directed at me.

"I don't understand," I said.

Ian pointed at Mark. "He came to get me." Mark broke away from Peter and moved over to sit next to Bucky. "I didn't want to go with him," Ian continued. "He tried to make me."

I looked first at Peter, who now wore the expression of someone who very much didn't want to be present, but was sticking around out of duty. Then at Ian, who had his arms crossed and his 0-90mph rage machine face on. I judged him to be at 45 and rising fast. Then Mark, who looked pale and tired and like the last thing he wanted was to be awake. Bucky scooted over to give him space. 

"What does... 'make you' mean?" I asked. I vowed not to do anything rash until I heard the answer.

"Mark?" Peter said.

Mark turned away. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I fucked up."

I repeated my question.

"He grabbed me," Ian said. "He pulled my jacket!" Ian took his arm and demonstrated. My brain flatlined.

"He wouldn't get in the car," Mark said.

"Tell him why," Peter said. I glanced his way again. Could he be angrier than me? What the hell had happened?

"There was a woman in the car and I didn't know her and she smelled like drugs!"

I dove at Mark. "Tony, no!" Bucky launched himself up and got between us. He took me crashing to the ground. 

Mark didn't flinch. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen. I went to pick him up. When he started acting…you know…I reacted badly, I know.”

From beneath Bucky, I answered. “Don’t you dare blame him. You put your hands on my son. You don’t do that. You don’t ever do that.”

"I'm sorry. It was a bad idea. I thought I could help, but I did it wrong." 

"Yeah, you did." Bucky stayed on me a few seconds more until I indicated I wouldn't attack again. I got up. Ian had gone upstairs. The television turned up obnoxiously loud announced his location. 

"Why are you involved?" I asked Peter.

"I pulled him off Ian and talked Dr. Reynolds out of calling the police. I vouched for your brother, so I felt obligated to follow along and make sure you knew what happened." 

"Thanks." Nice to know the one person in the room I could trust to tell me everything was the one guy I wasn't supposed to trust. I turned to Mark. "I want to know, right now, what is going on. You show up out of the blue, you haven't told me anything, you disappear, now... this. What's next, Mark?"

"Tony." Bucky again. 

"You know his secrets, don't you? He's told you."

"I needed a lawyer," Mark said. He sat with his hands linked. They shook between his knees. I sometimes forgot that Bucky had been to law school and passed the bar. But if Mark was in trouble, Bucky wouldn't be much help. He hadn't specialized in criminal law. 

"I told him to tell you," Bucky said. He put a hand on Mark's knee. "You have to. You know you can't wait any longer."

"Tell me what?" I asked. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it together." Bucky and Mark glanced at each other, and I had the sinking feeling this wasn't something to be handled.

"I should go," Peter said. “I’m still waiting on that interview. You promised me an exclusive with you and Mark.”

“Not now,” I said.

"Bad time. Right. I'm just gonna...." None of us stopped him as he backed out the door. 

I opted to revert back to a subject I was less scared of. "Tell me why you tried to pick up Ian."

Mark answered with no hesitation. "You would have done it for me. I mean, you did."

I'd forgotten about that. I'd scared the pants off Mark's bully. I cracked a smile. "Oh yeah." What had become of me? Mark had been needier than Ian. Maybe it wasn't me that had changed. 

"I have cancer," Mark said. There. Like that. No lead in. "It's stage 4, advancing rapidly. I came here to see doctors. Someone to tell me there's hope. So far I haven't found anyone. I've even been going to church. That lady I was with, we smoked together. It helps."

"What about chemo?" I asked.

"Didn't work."

"Oh." It was all I could think to say. "How... how long?"

"I didn't ask. But three out of four doctors say I should put my affairs in order." His cheesy smile was more than I could bear. 

I couldn't believe I was still standing. I perched on the edge of the couch. "So, you needed Bucky for...?"

"I wrote his will," Bucky said.

"I don't want to die," Mark said. "But I see Penny everywhere, and I have to believe that after I'm gone, we'll be together again."

I couldn't fault him for that. "When you were gone, I saw you everywhere, too."

"I'm so sorry," Mark said. "I wanted to see you before I died. Maybe I should have stayed away. Now you think I'm back for good, when really it's only a minute."

"You aren't going anywhere." I was afraid I'd crumble if I reached for him, so I maintained a rigid stillness. "We're going to take care of you."

Bucky burst into tears. I was too embarrassed to speak as his sobs filled the room. When they faded away after an interminable time, he stared at Mark. “Asshole.”

After a moment, Mark nodded. "I'm going to bed." He turned to Bucky. "Help me?"

Bucky stood, wiped his eyes, and let Mark take his arm. They moved like they'd done it before. I turned away from the stabbing realization that they had. After they'd climbed the stairs, I pulled out my phone and typed a long message to Steve. Then I deleted it all and wrote two words that I'd never sent him before.

_Come home._ In seconds, he replied. _Do you need me to skip the speech?_ I wanted to say yes, but I didn't dare. These things took months to plan. If Steve left early, he would disappoint and inconvenience a thousand people. On the other hand, I needed him here as soon as he could be. Without my responding, Steve texted again. _I'm on my way._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I know it's only a week and in the world of WIPs, that's nothing, but I hate to lose momentum. Shout out to my subscribers. 20 awesome peeps. Not too many chapters left, so if there's something you'd like to see, please leave a comment. If I can't fit it into the main narrative, I may do some extras.

"Tony, would you call Ian?" Steve said.

"Yeah." I went to get him from the piano. He didn't move, so I sat beside him and leaned my head on his shoulder and waited until he finished. Since Mark had come back, Ian had spent most of his time on that bench. He hadn’t reacted when I told him Mark was sick. I didn’t know if he understood. As for me, I'd abandoned my scripts for medical journals. Mark had seen five doctors, he said. I made him appointments for twenty more. Steve hadn't gone on the road again, but I wasn't sure if he was home for Mark's sake or to stop me from spiraling. Either way, I was glad he'd chosen to stay.

"Soup's on, Bud," I said.

"Did that sound all right, Dad?"

"Yeah. It sounded good."

"You always say that."

"Only when I mean it."

"Dad."

"Buddy. Food."

He put his arms around me and kissed me. "Shave, Dad. You're scratchy."

"Tomorrow. I will. Come on." We were doing a full-on family dinner. No one said it was a last meal, but when various red-eyed gazes all dodged mine as I looked around the table, I knew we were all thinking the same thing. Mark was the only one dry-eyed.

“So Tony had another run in with Reynolds last week,” Bucky said.

Natasha smirked.  “Jesus, Tones.” How I used to hate that name. How I loved it now.

“When did you learn to make casserole?” Mark asked.  He eyed his plate and poked a noodle with his fork.  “I didn’t think you could cook.”

"Tony makes pasta from scratch," Steve said.

Which I didn't do tonight. This is just boiling water and opening cans.”

“My very own chef.”  Steve raised his glass.

“Still better than you, darling.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“You want a cook,” Bucky said, “you’ve got to meet the chef at this new restaurant down on 14th street.  His truffles are unbelievable.  Didn’t you think so, Nat?”

“I can’t believe I married a man who eats truffles and then gushes over them.”  

“Perfect.  They were perfect,” Bucky was drooling from the memory.  “Tones, you and Steve should go.  They could use the publicity.”

“Don’t start, Bucky.  We’re having a nice dinner here.”  
Bucky raised his spoon and sniffed.  “I’m fairly certain that there is no Cheez Whiz used at this restaurant.”

“Well, that’s their loss.”  Natasha accompanied this comment by plopping a second helping onto her plate.  “Mark?”  She offered the serving spoon to him. 

“Thank you.”  He laid it back in the casserole dish.  His own plate was untouched.

“Mark, is everything all right?  You aren’t eating.”  Steve peered at his plate, inspecting it.

“It’s fine.  I’m sure it’s very good.”

“You might be more sure if you tried it.”

“Well, actually, I try to eat vegan when I can.”

Everything stopped as we stared at him.  “Since when?” Bucky said.

“I saw a holistic doctor a few weeks ago. She suggested it. Thought it might help.” He picked up his fork and stabbed his noodles. “Well. Might as well enjoy life while I can, right?”

Bucky was the first to react. “Yes, here here!”

“Mark, you should have said.  I would have made something else.” I started to get up.  “You want peanut butter and jelly or something?  I’m afraid it’s all I can do quickly.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“It’s no problem.  I’m already up.  Anyone else want something?”

“Beer,” Bucky said.

“Get it yourself.”

“Tony,” Natasha said.

“Fine.  Beer for Bucky.” 

"I want peanut butter and jelly, too," Ian said.

"You're having what you've got," Steve said.

"Sorry, Buddy," I said.

He made a face.

I squeezed between the backs of Steve’s and Natasha’s chairs to reach the counter so I could make the sandwich.

“Strawberry or grape?” I asked.

“Strawberry.”

I slapped the jam on, closed up the sandwich and presented it to him.  “Voila.” 

“Thank you.  I’m sorry for any trouble.”

“Mark, on the scale of trouble that you are capable of, this does not even register.”

“I think I’ve just been insulted.”  

I smiled at him and slid back into my chair.

“No one did trouble like you, Mark.  No one.”  Bucky was talking with his fork and one hand and knife in the other, flinging fragments of noodle around.  “You should tell them about the time you talked me into skipping school to go fishing.”

“As I recall, you talked me into skipping school.”

“I don’t think I talked you into it so much as I suggested it and you knocked yourself over to say what a fine idea you thought it was.”

Mark laughed. “If that’s how you want to remember it.”

Bucky turned toward Natasha.  “We were fifteen, and we snuck down to the riverbed to do some fishing, except once we get down there, Mark says he’s going to try something different.  He’s got this idea that is going to net us a ton of fish.”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Steve said.  Mark was watching Bucky, grinning, red.

“He pulls this jar out of his bag and it’s got a little black putty-looking rock in there.  Sodium something or other that he lifted from the chemistry lab in school.  Well, you know what happens when that stuff comes in contact with water, right?”

"No," said Ian, breaking his silence to give away his interest.

“Boom,” Mark said quietly.

“Boom.” Bucky slammed his hands down on either side of his plate. “He opened the jar and flung the thing into the water.  We were still diving for cover when the explosion hit.   I got slapped in the face by so many fish tails, and Mark was out there just laughing and grabbing them and carrying on.  I have never seen anything like it.”

“We heard the explosion from school,” I said.  “We saw water shooting up over the trees.  You guys are lucky you weren’t killed.”

"Wow," Ian said.

"Don't get any ideas, Buddy," Steve said.

“We had fish for a month,” Mark said.  “I never wanted to eat another fish again.”

“That was why you had all those fish?” Natasha said.  “Why didn’t I know that?”

“You were in little kid land.  Nothing infiltrates that, not even geysers spouting fish,” I said.  “Mark, did you get in trouble for that at all?”

“Nope.”

“Figures.  Bucky?”

“Me? I got into nothing but trouble with Mark.” He ruffled Mark’s hair and received a wide grin in return.

 

#

 

I saw him up ahead, walking in the rain. I drove up beside him and rolled the passenger-side window down. I leaned across the seat, stretching the chest restraint of my seatbelt as far as it would go.

 

"Do you need a ride?" I called. He turned to me, and I caught a flicker of an amused smile. I held my breath for a half second. I knew he would accept, and yet, there was always the chance… He came over to the car. I breathed again and smiled for him. I'd never picked someone up like this, but he made me feel like a natural.

 

"I don't usually do this," he said.

 

I popped the locks. "Make an exception for the rain?"

 

He opened the door and got in. "Just this once." He dropped his umbrella, dripping, into the well beneath the dashboard. The door slammed, and I pulled into 8th Avenue traffic. There were hundreds of things I wanted to say, but they all centered on variations of, "Gee, I hate to see a man wet," so I kept my mouth closed. The radio filled up the silence with "Star-Spangled Man." He twisted his lips like he wanted to say something, but he let me get away with it. It's not everyone's kind of music.

 

"I know you, don't I?" he said. I glanced over, briefly allowing my attention to stray from the road. His body was turned toward me, one knee raised and on the seat. There were a number of reasons for him to know me. As if to prove my point, a bus sailed past with my face on it. I pretended not to notice. He swallowed laughter.

 

"You treated my brother," I said, offering the reason that his oaths prevented him from voicing.

 

"Oh?" He was going to make me work for it. He would not drop a patient's name just because someone claimed to be a relative. Therapists were funny like that.

 

"His name's Mark. I'm Tony… Stark," I added, in case he wasn't sure.

 

"Ahh. Tony Stark." He said it in a way that made me wonder just what Mark had told him about me. I did a mental catalog of all the things that could kill my chances with him. I decided that he did not know about the time I put Mark in the dryer and turned it on. He probably would not have gotten in the car if he knew about that. He extended his hand in my direction, palm sideways, and I slid my right hand down his long, capable fingers. He wrapped his thumb around it. We shook.

 

"It's good to meet you, Tony."

 

"Likewise, Dr. Rogers," I said.

 

"Steve," he said. "If you don't mind."

 

I did not mind at all. "Would you like to stop for coffee, Steve?" I asked.

 

He shook his head. "I don't date patients, Tony. Or their families."

 

"Mark isn't your patient anymore. He's all better now. So that rule doesn't apply to us."

 

His eyes twinkled. "All right. Coffee. But just one."

 

I raised my fingers in supplication, steering briefly with my palms. "You won't regret it, I swear."

 

I steered around Columbus Circle, and Steve said, "Why did you stop for me back then?"

 

"Because you needed a ride." I pulled him toward me, and he rested his head on my shoulder. "Because I saw how Mark was improving since he started talking to you. Because the first time I saw you going into your office, I thought, 'Now there's a fella I'd like to know.'" I used Steve's word. My old-fashioned young husband. I hesitated. His head was heavy and comforting against me. I squeezed his arm. "Because I have a little bit of a crush on you." His hand came to rest on my stomach. "Why did you get in?"

 

"Because I was wet." He rubbed a circle on me. I grinned. It was enough of an excuse for me.

 

"I don't care about the reason, really. I just care that you're here now."

 

"The things your brother said about you made me want to meet you," he said. "And when you stopped and offered a ride to a man in the rain, I think I got a little bit of a crush on you, too." His hand brushed my nascent erection. He smirked at me. It took all my willpower not to raise my hips when he kept his hand there. I slowed the car for a traffic light. His face tilted toward me, and I kissed him without hands.

 

"I love you," I said. I was grinning like a fool.

 

He caught my lips again, and I opened my mouth to allow a slip of tongue inside.

 

"Happy anniversary, darling," he said. He caught me in his eyes, and I forgot how to think. His lips were wet. Mine were, too. A car behind me honked. I accelerated.

 

"Where are we going?" he asked.

 

"I thought we could go for dinner at the Parker-Meridian. I've rented us the honeymoon suite." I checked for his approval.

 

He smiled and sighed like a prince presented with new silks. His hand was still on me. My hips wiggled slowly beneath his touch. "If you keep that up, we won't make it to dinner," I said. I made no move to stop him.

 

"I don't mind," he said.

 

"You won't be disappointed?"

 

He pulled my head down and kissed my nose. "No."

 

We skipped dinner. We had marked every anniversary with this private pageant of our first meeting. This was the thirteenth time that I had picked him up from a sidewalk blocks from home (although the location of 'home' had changed more than once). Rain or shine, we pretended that it was pouring. Always, I leaned out the window and called to him. Always, I played our song. We had added to the ritual over the years--the kissing, the declarations of love, the sex. It was hard to remember what was planned, and what was not. It was all natural, spontaneous, to me.

 

We had never made it to dinner.

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Three week's after Mark's confession, I took Ian to school. I came home. I went through my daily routine, which now included memorizing lines. I'd won the role of the father in the western. It started shooting at the first of the month. As I practiced moseying, then stalking, then trodding around the apartment to find the character's walk, I didn't know that I wasn't alone until Nat called me and asked where Mark was. 

"We were supposed to meet two hours ago. Is he there?"

I glanced up toward the balcony, at his closed door. I said a silent prayer. Mark had been getting worse. He was still able to get out and about, but the effort it took showed in the tightening of his lips and jaw. He went to bed earlier and earlier, and the drawer in his nightstand was crammed full with medicines, vitamins, and "please God let this work" bottles. 

"I'll call you back." At the foot of the stairs, I considered. If he was dead, and I waited, then it would be a few more minutes for me to not have lost Mark again. If he was alive and fine, and I waited, then it was a few more minutes for me to worry without reason. If he was alive, but could be dead in the next few minutes, then my waiting would rob us of those minutes. I would never know, but he would. He would die alone if I didn't move now. 

I sprinted up the stairs. He was laying face down on the bed. I grabbed an ankle and gave it a shake.

“Mark. Come on. Get up.” Nothing. No movement. No sound. "Mark." I leapt on the bed, on my knees, grabbed his shoulders and rolled him over.

He came to life, sat up, sputtering and looked up at me. I twisted to get hold of him, and he heaved and vomited. Then he collapsed again. "Mark." I grabbed him under his arms and drag-walked him into the bathroom. I sat him on the edge of the tub. He slumped forward while I took my socks and pants off. "Come on." I stepped in the shower and pulled him up, his back to my chest. "Clothes off." When I turned the spray on him, his eyes lost a little of their glaze. One by one, his vomit-touched clothing came off and landed in a wet heap at our feet. He wasn't doing anything to help me, but at least he could stand. 

I put my arm across his chest and let him lean forward, so I could wash his back. I ruffled his hair and he pressed into my hand. I rubbed shampoo in and let it wash off over him. When I turned the water off, he sat down on the tub's edge again in his soaking white cotton underwear, so I toweled myself off. He let me dry him--I picked up his arms like a doll. I put a towel around his shoulders and walked him back to the bedroom.

The second I let him go, he dropped to the floor. I bent down and he put his head on my knee. I thought that I should get him up and dressed, but I was too tired from keeping us both from drowning in the shower, so I sat down against the wall and he sprawled over my legs. I was stuck with my naked-ass brother snuggled against me. I had my hand in his hair and it was like when we were kids, except he was a lot smaller then and I could throw him off. Not that I couldn’t now, but I didn’t. Maybe I was relieved he was alive, but I didn’t do a thing except watch him sleep. I stayed up all night, watching him and waiting for Steve. 

“Can I die here?” Mark's sleepy eyes stared up at me, caught between shuttering and anticipation.

"I don't want you to die."

He sighed and rested his head against my chest. "Penny needs me. I can hear her calling." He glanced toward the window and smiled, as if she was right there on the other side. 

“Do you need money? For medical bills?”

He nodded.

“I’ll give to you. You can have anything you want.” I clutched his arm. He patted my hand.

“Won’t do any good. Won’t keep me alive.” As his hand fell away, he gave me a cheeky grin. “But it will keep the creditors off my back.”

I looked straight ahead after that and he did not say anything else. I wanted to mess his hair. I wanted to ask why he hadn’t told me he was sick, but I couldn’t find the words. So I held him.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"When you see my will, I don't want you to be angry."

"Why would I...?"

"Because I'm going to ask you to do something, and you won't want to." He clutched my arm as his full focus swung back to me. "Promise me you will. Don't ask, just promise."

I would have told him anything. "I promise."

#

_"I'd just bring trouble to you and mama if I stayed, John. You're a growed man, now. You don't need me around."_

_"We do need you, Pete. Don't go."_

_"You're going to be all right. I promise. But if you ever have any trouble, send a letter and I'll come running."_

"Cut. Gate check." The 2nd AD's directive flowed into the silence after my line. The ADs repeated the instruction until everyone who needed to know it did. Ron Howard operated a "quiet set". No one yelled. Temper tantrums were conducted on the smallest scale possible, and when instructions were given, they traveled with speed and accuracy down the line of command. Tom Hiddleston cocked his eyebrow and peered at me in mild confusion. Ron had stopped us in the middle of a scene that had been going well. This was unlike him. 

I turned toward Ron and found him approaching from behind the wall cameras, stepping over cables and a horse trough to reach us. "What went wrong?"

"We're going to take a little break. Tony, let's talk in your trailer."

"My trailer? Ron, what is it?"

He started walking, so I followed. "I'm rusty, I know, and Tom's amazing--"

Ron hooked his arm into mine and spoke quietly. "Tony, you are just as good as you ever were. I can't believe it's been seven years since you were in front of a camera. That's not why I pulled you aside."

"Then why?"

We'd reached my trailer. Ron opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I climbed the steps into the narrow space. Finding a spot to stand between the brown corduroy couch and the dinette, I turned to face him. 

Ron closed the door. His expression was kind, compassionate, and sorrowful. I started to shake my head. "Steve called. Mark's passed away. I'm sorry."

Time stopped for me. I felt the room spinning, and a pressure on my elbow that came from Ron holding me up. He helped me sit.

"Say it again," I said because I had not heard, truly, what he had said. I wanted confirmation before I broke totally.

"Do you want some water?"

"No. Thank you."

The kitchenette was at Ron's back. He twisted and poured a glass of water from the filtered tap. "Here." I stared at, sun reflecting into it and off my glass table, creating a rainbow. Mark was dead, and there was sun. And there was a rainbow.

"We're rearranging the shooting schedule to give you a few days off."

"You don't mean that. Think of the budget."

"It's not a problem. The scenes need to be shot. We have the people and the equipment. Go home. Steve will be there." He sat down next to me. He held my hand with both of his. Ron Howard was old enough to be my father.

Howard Stark never would have done this. Not stopped work for me, not comforted me, not waited with me.

"I have to get Ian from school." I didn't move. We sat, and I did not cry, or fall apart, and when the sun moved off my glass, I got up.

"I may take a few days."

"As many as you need."

"Thank you." We went out of the trailer together, and on the way to my car, Ron stayed beside me as if we were in conversation. I was in with my driver before I realized what he was actually doing—keeping anyone from talking to me so I could get off set easily and without anyone accidentally saying something idiotic. He whispered something to my driver and the next thing I knew, we were in front of the Ian's school.

I stopped at Reynold's office first, knew I'd have to, but the battle I'd braced for didn't happen because Steve had called ahead. Reynolds said that she was sorry for my loss and that Miss Shannon was expecting me too. 

I stood in Miss Shannon's doorway for a moment. The children were assembled in a circle on the floor, and Miss Shannon played her guitar. I cracked a smile when the class sang the states and capitals song along with her bouncy rhythms. Ian sat beside Mishka. I hadn't heard him mention her for awhile. She rolled something pink between her finger and thumb. It was either chewed gum or an eraser. I stepped in when they reached Nebraska. 

"Dad?" Ian said. He stood up, suddenly twice as tall as his seated classmates. 

I glanced at Miss Shannon, who had set her guitar down. "We good to go?"

"Mr. Stark, I--" I gave her a warning look and she stopped. I wanted to tell Ian, and the next word she spoke could tip him off. She offered a tiny smile instead. "Ian, get your things. Your dad is here to pick you up."

"The song isn't over."

I interjected. "Now."

To my relief, he moved over to his cubby without another word and extracted his jacket and bookbag. 

"His homework for the next two days is in his bag," Miss Shannon said. I nodded at her gratefully. 

Ian walked out of the room with me. "Did Uncle Mark do something again?"

I crouched down. "Buddy, I have bad news. Uncle Mark died." Miss Shannon and the children started singing again as Ian stared at me, his brow furrowed. 

"I just saw Uncle Mark, so he can't be dead." 

I'd thought the same thing. I wouldn't have left today if I'd known. Mark had seemed to bounce back in recent days. He'd even insisted on an outing to a Yankees game. I thought the treatments were helping, but Steve said that terminal patients often experienced a last burst of energy. He told me to prepare myself, but how? "He's gone, Buddy." 

I held his hand as we went out of the school. I squeezed, couldn't help it, and Ian pulled free. I looked down at him with red eyes. "Sorry." I held his hand again, gentler, and we walked toward the park. He let me, but I needed to know that he was safe. I needed to hold him like I used to, to feel his heart beating against mine and his breath on my neck. 

"Ian, is it okay if I carry you?"

He pulled his second backpack strap over his shoulder. "Yeah." I swung him into my arms. His legs were too long for it to be easy on me, but he wrapped them around my waist. He rested his chin on m shoulder.

“Dad, there’s a paparazzo behind us.” My alert boy, when all I wanted to do was shut out the world.

I rubbed his head. “Don’t worry about him, Ian. Daddy’s going to make it all fine.” It was nonsense. What could I make fine? I walked faster, and Ian kept watch over my shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

Days went by and I was numb with each one passing. The recovery I was assured was around the corner stayed a trick ahead of me. I had to remind myself to do things I did naturally. Make dinner. Check e-mail. Remind Ian to bathe. I couldn’t remember to do it myself. At the reading of the will, I learned that Mark wanted his ashes spread in the backyard of some person I’d never heard of. In homage to the few times we'd taken family road trips as children, he'd requested that I drive there. I sucked in a breath, willing myself not to be so harsh. _His dead wife’s home_. I shouldn’t be snappish about that. Ian and I were going to go. I'd grabbed a 24-hour break in my shooting schedule for the trip. Ian was spending too much time alone, to the extent of ignoring me. It would be good for him to get out of the city. Good for both of us. Steve had canceled a few Captain America filming dates, but now he was shooting again. People needed him. They always would. I'd already been back to work. 

I didn't expect anyone to come to Mark's funeral aside from our little group, but his doctor came, and a few people from the church Mark had attended. The minister did the service. Carol came too, along with her still-secret boyfriend. When people got up to share their memories, I was struck by how many there were that I didn't know about, memories formed in the few months since he'd reappeared. I sat in the front holding Steve's hand, and when the minister quietly asked if I wanted to say anything, I shook my head. 

Steve got up and spoke from hand-written notes that he pulled from his jacket pocket. I recognized the notebook paper from his bedside table. He said everything I would have wanted to say, had I been capable of words instead of raw emotion. Ian sat beside me, his feet thudding the chair legs. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the sound. 

When everyone had migrated to the reception area for fancy finger foods and conversation, I stood and walked to the casket. Steve joined me.

“I loved him,” I said.

“I know you did. He knew that, too.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I said.

Steve squeezed my shoulder. I covered Mark’s folded hands with one of mine. “If you wait a few days, I can go to Ohio with you. You don't have to do this alone."

But I did have to. The scheduling was arranged, road trip mapped. I leaned into him. “It's okay. I love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. Every day.”

“You’re going to be all right, Tony.”

I took my hand off Mark's, so I could put my arms around Steve's waist. “I believe you. It’s just, it’s hard.” As I turned away from my brother, Steve held me.

#

“In a world where nothing is certain....” Ian's pre-adolescent voice modulated between cracked roughness and the adopted baritone of the movie trailer announcer he imitated. “One man, a boy, and his brother’s ashes are about to encounter an adventure they’ll never forget. Deep in the Appalachians, murder awaits them….” He paused. In his regular voice, he said, "Or, no." He resumed the announcer voice. "A man who hasn't seen his brother in fifteen years now drives across the country to complete his final wish. With only his brilliant son to accompany him and protect him from werewolves...."

“Buddy,” I said. “Give it a rest. And no werewolves or murders. Or mountains. We're going to Ohio, not New England.” 

Ian had been providing voiceover for our road trip since we’d left New York City. Now we were in Pennsylvania, speeding toward Ohio and the address handwritten in Mark’s will, the place where he’d spent those years I had looked for him—the place that evidently made him happier than his family ever had—the place where Mark had buried his wife. "Well, when you put it that way," my conscience scolded, but it was a fleeting reprimand.

We'd had an easy drive so far, and Ian's variations on our situation kept me alert through the doldrums of Pennsylvania. The state went on forever. I'd lost hope a hundred miles back that we'd see the other side of it. Ian sat with chip wrappers on either side of him, remnants of the snacks we'd grabbed from a rest stop vending machine. I tossed plastic wrap with the crust of an egg salad sandwich wadded up inside it into the small purple bucket we used as a trashcan. I threw my empty soda cup in after it.

"Bored," Ian said. "Can I sit in the front?"

"As soon as you grow two more inches."

He huffed. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He stared out the window with his arms crossed, scowling. "I could sit on a pillow."

"No."

"I could sit on Uncle Mark."

"No. Why don't you color?"

"Coloring's for babies."

I'd expected that reaction when I bought the new books for him, but I'd enjoyed coloring during my family road trips when I was a boy. There was something about the road that made a return to childish things enticing. Ian, on the cusp between childhood and youth, was perhaps in too fragile a state to see it as nostalgia. Not enough time had passed since he'd spent his weekends sprawled on the floor in front of the television, tongue curling out of the corner of his mouth as he brought a picture to life with a crayon.

"Ian, are you sad Uncle Mark died?"

"Yeah."

"You haven't said anything."

"He was weird, but I liked him. Most of the time." He talked at the window, at the trees lining the road, not to me.

That summed up Mark better than I could. _Weird, but I liked him. Most of the time._ "Yeah," I said.

"We're going to see his dad?" Ian asked.

"No, Buddy. My dad is Mark's dad."

"I know, but, Mark stayed away so long. He got a new family. He got adopted, like me."

I was glad for the empty road because Ian's words hit me like a gut punch. Had Mark thought of this other man, Professor something, as a father? Had he called him that? Was this why Ian and Mark had developed a cautious understanding with each other? Even though I comforted myself that Ian and Mark were nothing alike, they'd had quiet moments together. Ian never talked to anyone outside Steve or me, apart from his classmates. But something about Mark, some connection I didn't understand, drew them together. "I don't know if it's the same," I said.

"Because he was older?" Ian asked.

I could say a hundred things in reply. Mark had run off, had decided for himself, had been an adult. "Yes. Is this, do you want to talk about your birth parents? Because Mark came back to us and we missed him very much?"

"It's not the same like that. He left, but my parents gave me up, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Ian dug through his rucksack at his feet and pulled out a tattered copy of _Watership Down_. "Turn the radio down? I don't like this song."

Heart in my throat, I obeyed.

#

We stopped at a tourist mall to stretch our legs. It was a complex of rustic restaurants featuring "down-home cooking", arcade games, and souvenirs. I was more accustomed to seeing places like it in the open West where the scenery was the attraction. Perhaps the novelty of it made me pull off the road. I bought Ian a soda, and we wandered through the souvenirs together. I reached the counter with a key ring for Steve because Ian insisted we get him something. I didn't know how appropriate it was to bring a souvenir back from this trip, but he was adamant. The girl at the desk took my credit card and wrapped the pewter key ring in tissue paper before bagging it up.

"Thanks," I said.

"Thank you," she replied. "Would you mind?" She pushed a blank piece of paper toward me. "I'm a big fan."

"No problem." I autographed it for her and handed it back. "Come on, Buddy." No answer. I looked down, where Ian had just been. I spun around. Miles of people and no sign of Ian. "Did you see where my son went?"

The clerk shook her head. "I can make an announcement."

"No, not yet." She looked at me as if she didn’t trust my judgment, but I knew better than her how an announcement broadcast across the store would send him into hiding. I climbed up on the counter and scanned the aisles from my new vantage point. I ignored the stares as shoppers realized that a famous actor was standing in front of them. Several people started to head for me, but I spotted Ian far off in the toy aisle. I leaped down and brushed past the people approaching me to get to him.

“What?” Ian planted his feet as I pulled him toward me.

“What were you thinking?”

He stared at me, his face an angry blank. He tugged his arm, but I wouldn’t let it loose.

“I knew where you were the whole time,” he said.

“I don’t care. You know better.” I rubbed my neck with my other hand. Fuck.

“Can we just go?” he asked.

“Fine. Yes.” Our combined frowns were enough to keep anyone from approaching as we left the store.

Ian flung himself into the backseat and slammed the door. He sat with his feet on Mark’s box, knees bunched up to his chest. I got in the driver’s seat and slammed the door, too. Ian started reciting routes immediately, muttering the N train stops from Brooklyn to Queens in monotone until I turned the radio up to drown him out. The N said "pissed off" but not "danger, combustion imminent." 

I should have pulled over and taken care of him, apologized, but I wasn’t ready yet. I held onto the anger, the fear, a bit longer. I prayed Ian would never understand what it meant to lose someone, to have them there one second and gone the next. Maybe I was stupid about that; maybe he understood that kind of loss the moment he was born and the two kids who brought him into the world handed him over to Steve and me. He may have forgotten it, but it could still be in him, deep down somewhere.

I wished Steve had come along, cursed myself for waving off his offer. Stupid, stupid. On my way to meet my brother’s other life and I’d thought I didn’t need Steve for that?

“You’re really mad at me?” Ian asked. He sounded small, uncertain, like the little boy he tried so hard not to be anymore. Of course he would wonder. Had he ever started a route alone and not had his daddy finish it with him?

“I’m angry at me,” I said. “I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off you.”

“You didn’t. I moved.” He reached up and patted my shoulder. I heard the snick of the seatbelt coming undone and a moment later Ian’s head rested on my shoulder. “I’m okay, Dad.”

I reached one arm behind myself and gave Ian a backward hug. “I know. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Okay.” Slipping away, Ian sat back and the seatbelt snapped closed again.

#

The professor's house was three miles past the town. Amidst farmland—fields and grazing livestock—it stood alone on a rolling hill. I turned up the gravel drive leading toward it. It wound through trees and alongside a decent-sized private lake with weeping willows surrounding it and lily pads along the edges.

"'Wow," Ian said, providing a commentary on the natural beauty I didn't want to voice. "Can I walk around it while you talk to the guy?"

"You don't want to come in with me?"

He gave me his look.

"You don't have to say anything."

"Granddad lets me walk around the pond on his farm."

"Come inside with me and then we'll see about walking around it together." I had the feeling we'd be sprinkling some of Mark on it later. As we reached the house, an older man came to the door. I sat in the car, letting it idle as I gave him the once over. On this weekday afternoon, he wore corduroy slacks and a button down shirt with a maroon sweater over it. A pair of glasses hung from a cord around his neck. His silver hair was parted to the side, thin but not balding. He looked over six feet tall from my vantage point.

"Dad?" Ian asked when I didn't move.

"Yeah." I opened the car door as the professor walked down his front stoop toward the car.

"Mr. Stark?" His voice, released from his square jaw, held the gravel of age. I accepted his outstretched hand to shake. It seemed too large for his slim arms.

"Tony," I said.

"James Rene."

"Professor."

"That's what my students call me. Please call me James."

"My brother called you Professor."

"Hmm." He seemed pleased.

"Mark was one of your students?"

"Officially, no. But I never met someone as eager to learn as your brother. I was so sorry to hear of his death. It was a terrible blow." He pulled away from my hand. "Terrible." He touched his freed hand to his chest and I automatically reached for his elbow, to steady him. The passenger door clicked open. Ian emerged, one foot at a time. He stood with the open door between him and us, protecting himself until he could assess the stranger. "Will you come inside?" James regained his composure and gestured to the still-open front door of his home.

"Yes, thank you. I just need to get…" Not sure how to voice it, I returned to the backseat of the car and pulled out Mark's box.

"Is that…?"

"Yeah." I cradled it, not caring how I must look. His face crossed with grief again. With effort, I didn't pull away when he put his hand on the box.

I slowed my usual city-trained pace to match his shuffle. As we reached the steps, he took my arm. "I hope you don't mind. I don't take steps as well as I used to."

"It's fine." I glimpsed back to see where Ian was. He lagged behind, still cautious, but coming. He reached the door as James guided me to set the box on a cleared wooden table.

"Mark refinished this." I gave it a closer look. I hadn't known Mark was capable of such work. It was beautiful. When had Mark loved anything enough to put such work into it?

"He did the banister, too." James indicated the staircase, which shone with the same brilliance as the table.

"Is that how he came here? To do that work?"

"I'm a professor of philosophy," James said. "I don't believe that anything is ever as simple as a man looking for work. Will you come sit down?" I followed him into a drawing room, lined floor to ceiling with packed bookshelves and a piano in one corner.

"Dad," Ian whispered, coming close to touch my hand.

"Is it all right if my son plays?" I asked.

"Of course."

"Keep it quiet, Buddy."

Nodding, he kept his head down as he ducked past James to get to it. Sitting down on the bench, he lifted the cover on the piano and in seconds had tuned us out in favor of Verdi. 

"I can imagine you have a number of questions," James said. He sat in a slingback chair upholstered in golden fabric and motioned me into its twin with a gesture that was more invitational than commanding.

"You don't know the half of it."

"Would you like me to start at the beginning or the end?"

"The end?" I asked.

"Why he left here. Why he went back to you."

I stared at my hands. "Is that what he was doing? Coming back to me?"

"What did you think he was doing?"

"I don't know." I looked up. "It's not going home, is it? Seems like he had a good home here."

"He always loved you. It was quite some time before he told us, Penny and I, the truth about himself. She encouraged him to contact you. I can't speak as to why he refused. You may know more about that."

"I don't," I said. "I never understood why he acted as he did."

"He kept track of you, though. You and Steve and Ian." He pulled a scrapbook off the coffee table and handed it to me. I opened it to find clippings about myself and my family, page after page of them. "I believe it grieved him a great deal that he hadn't met Ian."

I closed the book on an article about Ian and me at the zoo, the same article that had resulted in our being called into his school for a lecture on playing hooky because I'd taken him out on a school day. It seemed ages ago, but it was only at the beginning of the school year. "He could have come home sooner."

“He took Penny’s death hard. Blamed himself.”

“He wasn't driving the car.”

“No, but it became difficult for him to stay here.”

I couldn't classify how that made me feel. I concentrated on Ian's music for a few seconds before returning my attention to James. “Did you know he was sick?”

“No.” James sat back in his chair, squeezing his fingers on its arms. “I didn’t.”

“He didn’t tell me, either. Didn’t tell any of us.”

“I saw him,” Ian said.

I looked at him, across the room, head just visible above the piano. “Saw him?”

“Taking his pills.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ian began playing again, something loud and slow that I didn’t recognize. It married to the ominous feeling already bubbling in me. “Ian. Something else. Please.” Without acknowledging me, he switched to pianissimo but kept the melody the same.

"When I received your call—" James began.

“My lawyer’s call,” I corrected him.

“Yes. That Mark had passed I… I didn’t know what to do. I’m not often lost for words, but he’s been so much like a son to me, and then a son-in-law, but we both lost a great deal when Penny died. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’m learning.” This second time losing Mark, this time for good and no questions about it, was wholly different from the first time, when all I had were questions and uncertainty. And hope. I had none of that now.

Ian flicked through a right-handed tune, fiddling with the keys.

“You and Ian are welcome to stay as long as you like. I’ve prepared the guest room if you want to stay overnight.”

“We should be back on the road.” I didn't want to say that I couldn't wait to leave, but I was sure he inferred it from my tone. His expression showed nothing.

“It’ll be dark soon. I assume you want to scatter the ashes before you go?”

“Yes.”

He stood up, joints creaking under his effort to rise. “If you don’t mind my joining you, I’ll show you his favorite places.”

“I’d like that.” I got up too. Behind me, Ian lowered the piano lid and slid off the bench. A moment later, he stood a few inches away, out of James’s reach but close enough to grab me if he needed to. He’d grown so much that I had trouble imagining that he would, despite what my own hopes on the matter might be.

“We can start at the lake,” James said. We followed him into the hall, where he pulled on a flat cap and wrapped a scarf around his neck. I tucked Ian back into his jacket, which he’d removed at the piano. He let me do it, eyes always locked on James, though not with the usual suspicion he held for strangers. This was more cautious consideration. When James opened the door leading out, Ian was first after him. He stood in the doorway, half in, half out, as I faced the table bearing Mark’s box. My knees wobbled, and for a moment I entertained the idea of crumbling before it and embracing the squared edges that contained the dust and bones of the brother who had been the center of my life for so long. Gathering myself, I lifted the box and turned to the door.

“Dad?” Ian asked.

“Fine,” I said.

Outside, there was no breeze. The leaves hung still on the trees as we walked toward the lake. A few steps off the drive, I remembered James’s fragility and checked on him, but he walked sure-footed on the sawdust path. “Mark used to fish off the dock,” he said, indicating a rickety-looking wooden construction that jutted ten feet into the water.

“Stay away from it,” I said to Ian. I pictured it collapsing at the slightest touch. Ian, possibly sharing the thought, looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

James chuckled. “It was in better condition. I haven’t had a chance to have it restored. I think I may let it float away and build a new one.”

“You built it?” I asked.

“Yes. Almost fifty years ago.”

Looking closer, I saw the labor that had gone into it, the logs in the water wrapped tight in rope and covered over with tar to seal them up. Across them, split logs lay flush against each other, flat sides up, sanded to smoothness. They lay warped now, curled and bent, fighting against the nails that held them down, keeping the dock under threat of collapse. But there was art in them, and James looked at them with deep-seated pride. I imagined him in the prime of his youth, dedicating a summer to the construction, perhaps in college at the time and needing a pastime to free him from the pressures of schoolwork.

“I can hold the box if you want to venture to the end,” James said. He held out a paper cup. “I brought this for convenience. To avoid accidental… dumping.”

“Right.” I swallowed, embarrassed. I hadn’t noticed he had the paper cup until now, and he actually had three. He handed Ian one, too. Ian clutched it, expressionless. We set the box on the ground and opened it. The outer box was purely decorative, even though it was plain. Inside, a utilitarian metal box held Mark’s ashes. I’d looked at them before, but now, knowing we were about to disseminate him—it—made me press my knees into the damp ground. The chill soaked through my jeans. I took a breath and dipped my cup in. James latched the box and picked it up.

I stepped toward the dock. Walking with the weighted cup in one hand, I felt my balance off, but I proceeded anyway, holding my breath as I stepped one by one over the warped planks. Despite its appearance, the dock held steady. I reached the end as a leaf floated past and a twig behind it. The water was a cloudy murk. I held the cup aloft, wondering if I should fling it or pour it out. I settled for some of both, taking my arm out in a wide, slow arc, and spilling the ashes into the water as I swept my arm from one side to the other. They floated on the water for a moment, spread across the black like pale stars before soaking up the water and sinking down. I remained until they’d all gone. I made my careful way back to land.

“Well,” James said, looking as if that was all there was to say.

I squared my shoulders and took the box from him. “Next?” I asked, feeling too abrupt with the question, but too raw to voice anything else to this stranger who’d been as a father to my brother.

“The trails in the woods.” James motioned to the other side of the lake, where the trees made a thick line. I started toward it. We followed along the edge of the lake most of the way. Frogs sleeping among the tall grass woke and leapt in as we passed, each leaving blips of air and disturbed water in their wake. When I'd arrived at this place, I'd seen in an instant what had drawn Mark to it.

"The tree where he proposed to Penny is this way," James said. The trail was the width of my foot, so I placed one in front of the other and followed him, catching the branches that snapped against my chest, face, and arms with my free hand and holding them back so Ian could pass without being swiped. He held his paper cup at his side and moved through the trail with his arms down, taking the branches that I held for him with his shoulders. When I looked back, I couldn't see where we'd entered. I pushed off the feeling that this was a metaphor—that I would be trapped in this place unable to see what was outside—and that Mark had experienced the same thing. Perhaps the professor had been his forest and had closed in around him, making him forget about us, about coming home. I stared at James's back with new eyes, at his knit sweater that now seemed sinister. He could have been lying when he said that Mark hadn't told him about us until he'd been here a long time. Maybe he'd pushed his daughter on Mark, seeking him to keep him there. He was a lonely old man. The more I thought it, the easier it became to believe.

Ian cried out. I turned, almost dropping the box of Mark as I did so. A cut across Ian’s cheek bubbled with a fresh line of red blood. "Buddy." I dropped to my knees and reached for him. He bit his lip as I inspected the wound.

"Hurt?" I asked.

He didn't nod or shake his head, just stood there stone still with his lower lip sucked between his teeth.

"I've got a clean handkerchief. It's not bleeding very much. And we'll put some antibiotic on it when we get back to the house." James crouched over my shoulder.

I shuffled to keep myself between James and Ian. "We're fine," I said. I didn't care that my voice sounded dark or that his handkerchief stayed next to my ear a few more seconds before James withdrew it.

"Dad?" Ian asked. He looked from me to James, and though I had my back to James, I could see from Ian's face, the reawakened suspicion in it, that I'd gone too far. A selfish part of me was glad for it. But shame overtook that feeling. I pulled a packet of tissues out of my pocket and gave one to Ian to hold on his face. After the bleeding stopped, I stood up.

"Maybe we could use that antibiotic when we get back," I said.

"Of course."

I ventured a look into James's eyes. He received me as if I hadn't just made a fool of myself. "Thank you."

"We're almost there." We began our walk again.

The trees opened into a large clearing. In the center, a pine tree stood. Its branches spread thirty feet in diameter. It seemed out of place among the oak, elm, and maple that we'd walked through to find it. "This is it?" I asked.

"He carved their names." James circled it, peering through the branches. "Yes, here." He pointed up. I moved beside him and looked where he pointed.

"I don't see anything."

"Through the fourth branch, about twelve feet up."

Then I saw it, though from the ground I couldn't make out what it said. It appeared as a change in coloration on the bark.

"I understand you're an action hero," James said with a smile.

"Was," I said, absent in my correction.

"What I mean is, why don't you climb up for a better look?"

"You don't mind?"

"Not at all."

That was all the urging I needed. I'd wanted to climb up and had plotted my trajectory the moment James pointed up, but I didn't want to start behaving like a monkey in front of this stranger. Now, though, I put Mark's box down and grabbed the lowest branch, which was a foot over my head.

"I want to go, too," Ian said.

I almost said no. We'd never done this before. But he stood in front of me, determined, the scratch red on his face, and I said, "Yes."

We handed our paper cups to James, who accepted them as if they were crown jewels entrusted to his care. I lifted Ian up so he could catch the branch. "Pull yourself up." I held his feet as he went on his stomach over the branch and crawled toward the trunk. I let him go once he seemed steady. He stared down at me. His face broke into a smile. I pumped my fist in the air, returning his grin.

"Hurry up, slowpoke," he said.

"Oh, that's going to cost you." I swung myself up, no problems, and found my balance as Ian climbed to the next branch. He moved with confidence—enough that I wondered if he'd been climbing trees in Central Park without telling me—and I shadowed him every step until we reached the branch where Mark had sat and carved his and Penny's initials into the trunk. I sat down beside it. Ian sat against me, both of us leaning against a sturdy branch that crossed at the middle of my back and just below Ian's shoulders.

I traced the uneven heart, Mark's initials, and the year. Eleven years ago, he'd sat here and etched into a tree for a girl I'd never met. A girl I would never meet. I touched her initials too, though this seemed too intimate. I pulled away before I finished tracing the second letter.

"Are you angry at me?" Ian asked. He knocked his feet together as he swung them. I looked through the branches down to James waiting below.

"Why would I be angry at you?" I didn't know if James could hear us, but the semblance that he couldn't was why we were having the conversation up here and not down there.

"Because I didn't tell you about Uncle Mark taking pills."

"No." I leaned over and kissed his head. "I promise I'm not."

"Okay."

We sat for a few minutes longer. Ian huffed in boredom. I tore my attention away from Mark's carved initials and we made our way back down. I led the way this time, but Ian didn't need any help until the final branch. I jumped down first and he dropped his legs over the side so I could catch him and lower him to the ground.

"Well, how was that?" James asked.  
I gave him a weary smile.  
"Fine," Ian said, the first word he'd said to James since we'd arrived. My astonishment must have shown because James laughed. He handed our cups back to us. "I thought we could all spread a bit this time."

"Okay," I said. Ian opened the box this time and filled the cups. I sprinkled mine out around the tree. James walked around the clearing, spilling his cup out as he went. Ian took a single step from the box and dumped his out in one go.

"The wind will spread it," he said in response to my look. "Then he'll go everywhere."

"Okay," I said.

"Or the rain will wash it into the ground."

"Which do you think Uncle Mark would prefer?"

He stared at me. "Uncle Mark's dead."

"Yeah." I turned away. Behind me, James chuckled.

"You've got a practical boy, there."

"A little too practical," I said. Ian ignored us and loaded up his cup again.

James put his hand on my shoulder. "Sometimes practicality helps in a situation like this."

I shifted away from him. "You mean when someone missing for fifteen years shows up out of the blue, dies, and then leaves a note directing his family to the picturesque idyll where he's spent the last decade and wants to have his ashes spread? Situations like that?"

"He was like my son," James said.

"He was my brother."

James held his hands up. "I'm not trying to compete. I just want you to understand—I'm hurting, too. And I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah."

We walked around the property spreading Mark's ashes until it was dark. "I can take you to Penny's grave," James said. "Perhaps the last of it should be placed there."

"Yeah." I repeated the only word I'd said in the past hour. Each toss of the cup made me more numb. I tried to perk up, aware of the worried looks Ian kept throwing my way. As I distanced myself from Mark, Ian drew closer until he walked beside me. I squeezed the back of his neck. Here we were, the opposite of how I'd ever wanted us to be. He looked ready to support me, something I'd vowed he should never have to do. I ruffled hair and gave him an honest smile. "I'm all right," I said. "I promise."

"Okay," he said after giving me a hard stare.

"I can drive us to the cemetery," James said. "Tony?"

"Is it still open?" I asked.

He smiled. "Cemeteries don't have hours of business out here."

"Oh. Right." I should have known that.

I tended to Ian's scratch in James's bathroom first. Then we rode in James's station wagon. He had academic papers strewn across the seats, but not a sign of food. He pushed the papers away to make room. "Sorry about this," he said. "I'm a little behind on grading."

"I'm surprised you don't lose papers."

"Sometimes I do."

James didn't play the radio. I didn't know if he normally kept it off or if this was an invitation to silent contemplation. Ian pushing the back of my seat with his feet kept me aware of his presence as I watched out the window to the winding road and trees alongside as we zipped past.

At the cemetery, Ian stayed in the car. James and I walked to Penny's gravesite together. "Twenty-eight years old?" I asked, doing the math as I looked at the tombstone.

"A late blessing for her mother and me," James said. He pointed to a grave next to Penny's. "May she rest in peace."

"I'm sorry," I said.

James gave a sad smile. "Ready?" He gestured to Mark's box, which I'd brought from the car.

"Ready." We didn't bother with cups this time. I opened the box and we both dipped in with our hands. I sprinkled the ashes through my fingers, rubbing my thumb over the consistency and catching bits of bone. I spread it down like flour over a pan, from one end of the grave to the other, side to side. James finished before me. With the last bit of Mark's ashes, I blew across my hand, sending it toward the tombstone. I knelt at the edge of the grave and wiped my hand on the grass. James did the same and stayed kneeling there, but I got up and moved to the car to give him some time alone with his wife and daughter's graves.

"Dad?" Ian asked when I got in the car.

"Done." I settled into the seat, exhausted.

"Dad?"

I turned around to look at him. His face was streaked with tears. "I'm really sorry Uncle Mark is dead."

"Oh. Buddy." Heedless of the seat between us, I stretched back to embrace him. "Me, too."

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything about his pills."

"It wouldn't have mattered."

"But then you could have known and—"

"Ian. It wouldn't have mattered. I promise."

He nodded against my shoulder and pulled away after a few seconds. Wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeve, he sat back and stared out the window. James walked toward us. I held Mark's box on my lap. James entered the car, gave Ian and me a sad smile. We returned to his home in silence.

James again offered us a room for the night, but I made an excuse that we'd booked a hotel in a town an hour away, that we were eager to begin the return trip. James embraced me before we set off, a gesture that caught me off guard. I awkwardly patted his back. Twenty miles later, the impact of all that had happened hit me. I pulled off the road as my blurred vision made driving impossible. Even Ian patting my shoulder couldn't stop my weeping, though I hated the idea of crying in front of him. My father had wept in front of me once, and even now I couldn't shake the memory of how helpless that had made me, to see that powerful man brought down by grief. 

"Daddy?" Ian asked.

My heart shook again to hear that word. A few short months ago, Ian had never called me anything else, but now it was 'Dad' or nothing. It brought on a new swell of sobs, but I caught myself in time, gagged on them and coughed out the result.

"I'm sorry," I said when I found my breath.

"I'm glad I'm an only child," Ian said. "If losing your brother makes you feel like that."

"Sometimes you forget how much you love them," I said. "Siblings can be frustrating."

"I've noticed," Ian said.

"But it's worth it. To have someone to share with, I mean."

"Was Mark worth it? You've been sad a long time, and it's his fault."

I didn't know how to answer. I wiped my eyes and nose on a napkin left on the seat from lunch. "You and Papa have made me happy," I said.

"Good." He sat back.

I turned around. "Ian. You weren't a replacement for Mark. You don't think you were, right?"

He stared at me a long time. "You and Papa make me happy, too." 

"Ian. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah. Yes. I know."

"Okay."

"Can we go?"

"Yeah." I eased the car back onto the empty road and resumed our journey to the hotel. Once we checked in, I gave Ian the phone to call Steve and went to shower. I thought I'd break down again once I was alone, but I didn't. My grief pulsed through me like the water pounding my back and shoulders. When I came out, Ian was in bed, still with the phone.

"Papa wants to talk to you."

I sat on my bed in my towel and took the phone. "Hey."

"How are you?" Steve asked.

I let out a snort.

"Been better, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Ian said the professor seemed nice."

"James. His name is James."

"Should we have him over or—"

"Too soon," I said. "Can we not talk about it now?"

"You want to hear about my day?"

"Yes."

"Captain America is getting a new sidekick."

"Who?"

"A little raccoon named Bucky Barnes. He's going to teach the kids about honesty."

"Does Bucky know?"

"It was his idea. I've been thinking about a sidekick for awhile, anyway, so...."

I chuckled. "That sounds interesting."

Ian turned on his side and pulled the cover over his shoulder. I took the phone into the bathroom and sat down on the tub. "Steve? Don't let me get overprotective of Ian again, okay? I'm worried that now Mark's gone again, I might. I think I might go through what I did before, slide back."

"Ian isn't going to let you keep him little," Steve said.

"I know."

"But I'll help you, too. I was thinking of taking some time off."

"Yeah? How long?"

"A year."

I sat up. I'd expected him to say two weeks at most. "Really?"

He laughed. "I've got this family who I hardly ever see. I miss them."

"They miss you, too," I whispered. I felt the grief now, unknotting in my gut and working up to my throat and eyes. "I think taking a year off would be a good… a good…" I couldn't finish the sentence before I lost the ability to speak. I kept my mouth closed, struggling to keep the sobs in and not accidentally summon Ian. I couldn't let him see me cry again.  
"Oh, Tony," Steve said. I lost my control.

"I just miss you. And Mark and, and I wish you were here…" I could have delayed the trip. It had seemed so _urgent_ to complete Mark's final wishes.

"You're worn out right now. I want you to go to sleep. Can you do that?" Steve asked.

"Yeah."

"Okay. Do that. I'll see you tomorrow. I want you back home."

"Okay."

I disconnected the call. After a few minutes, I got up from the tub's edge, swapped the towel for a clean pair of undies, and got into bed. In the morning, we'd head home where it would once again be me and Ian and Steve. In that sense, nothing had changed. But also in that sense, everything had changed. The place in my heart where Mark had been was empty now, devoid of the hope I'd kept there during his missing years. Steve would help me to build around it. For now, I lay down and pressed my fist against it, keeping my heart together until Ian's insistent prodding woke me in the morning and I opened my eyes to his unruly hair and up-too-early grin and the demand for pancakes.

I rolled out of bed and stumbled for the toilet. Not awake, but alive. I ruffled Ian's hair when I emerged, aware enough to smile at him. "Morning, Buddy," I said.

"New day, Dad."

I woke a bit more and recognized his promise, and made one of my own. "New day, son."

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Thank you for reading, kudoing, and commenting. This is the first long fic I've done in a long time, and I really appreciate the support for it. Thank you for coming along on Tony's journey with me. If you liked this fic, please tell your friends!


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